Opening the Window

She Will Not Be Quiet: A (mostly unedited) daily writing practice

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Day #61 of (mostly unedited) daily writing/sharing

Opening the Window

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? —Mary Oliver

I don't know how to stop writing about 
the same things I wrote about yesterday, 
how to show and not tell, how to love a body 
that carries this weight, these scars, how to forgive 
a mother who was more concerned with closing 
the windows so the neighbors wouldn't hear 
than protecting her children, how to replace 
the word stupid that my father spit in rage, 
with words that feel feather-soft, how to forgive 
the younger me who so often left herself, how to sit with 
this restlessness, this voice that screams wrong 
wrong wrong. My words are small, scattered, searching 
for a place to land, but instead, they play hide 
and go seek. I am tired of seeking. Tired of hiding. Tired 
of closing the windows. But, I don't know how 
to keep these legs from running when things gets hard, 
how to find the ground when the ground won't stand still, 
how to quiet the noise long enough to find the truth—
how to fall freely in love when everything dies at last, 
and too soon. I'll start with I don't know, with noticing
the breeze that finds me just now through the open 
kitchen window—with feather-soft words meant just for me.

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