I'm not myself lately
I hear the words from my lips and wonder, then who am I?
there is a constant drive.
there is a hum under the words, the beating of my heart,
there is a moment in every day where I stop and wonder,
Who is this I, this self, whom I am not, lately?
Who is it, then, who is experiencing this life, if not I?
and I tie myself up in knots,
and I feel the thread slip from under my finger.
Do you know the thread? The thread Princess Irene follows,
up to her grandmother's room, away from the goblins?
I put out my finger, and I cannot feel it.
I put my hand into the back of the wardrobe,
and it's solid behind the coats.
there is a hum under the words, a flutter in the chest,
and every day there are more lines around my mouth,
and around my eyes.
I am not myself.
and I think of the poem by Juan Ramon Jimenez.
and I think of the thread.
and my hands are like my mother's, and I wish hers were here,
so we could hold our same-same hands together.
So I could find the thread, the one that stretches up
to my grandmother's room.
So I could read their eyes in my own,
their love in the lines around those eyes.
So I may be myself.
Hi. That's me. I write, sometimes, about parenting, storytelling, and about living a life with stories.