remnants of my past
misused, stored carelessly
in two boxes
a brilliant spirited artist
abused, broken
into two boxes
it's time to open
reclaim, cherish
those two boxes
I recently visited my sister and brought home two boxes of childhood keepsakes. She had rescued them from my father's careless need to erase his past when he remarried two years ago. Now those two boxes sit like monoliths, awaiting me to unlock their mysteries.
I find it a bit silly. I am a strong and capable woman, but when I see those two boxes I quiver and become the girl with the pasted on smile wishing to be invisible. Those two boxes contain much power and hence much pain. They hold the incredible being that was caged and driven deep underground. I know it's time to reclaim that power and remember the truth of my past, but I don't have to like it. Those two boxes frighten me deeply enough to still my bones and it's not easy to quell their song.
Thus, I keep taking small steps. I will not rush towards those two boxes, but I will not turn away. I'm going as gently as I can. I'm still learning that allowing my story to be heard is a good thing.
