Mother Lived a Miracle

You gave examples, by this stance of wisdom, as statuesque knowledge. I watched in awe, merely a child, at search through crevices. There were ghosts, as swarming innocence, a waterfall as a dungeon. We often smiled—oven green onions and eggs, nibbling sausage. Sunday awoke piety, that gaudy yellow suit, a Bible, and the art of few questions; but life was hectic, at least eight days a week, as never to speak of poverty; we merely lived it, as two resilient, to bleed through outcomes. I saw it, etched in brows, at peace with a routine: the late night fancies, the daylight flames, as one soaring from chemicals. We sought friendships, in an adverse world, living as refugees; but oh the courage, that face of steel, boiling water to cleanse utensils.    

I see more the bad, for it affects us more, when it outweighs the good; this complicated growling, driven within, pulling at sanity. To know you passed, induced an upwelling—I see you more in your absence: the silent screams, the overt language, that style of dying, that world of excuses. “It couldn’t be me, for I wouldn’t do that. It isn’t fair, the way that you treat me.” While pain is a miracle, in certain degrees, it causes confusion; too much is detrimental—we opt for resistance, to build our muscles; as opposed to grief, as a daily regimen, this thing fueled through anger; and so misguided, to do it for years, while asking for miracles; but what for love, from one so scolded, this miracle of events; to live as gray matter, searching for buoyancy, at war with this inner person? Anger found a home, strangled in silence, to project said anger; as one living death, unhappy with status, sorrowed by the means of your joy.  

As a child, raised by a soldier, even a warrior, initiating wars; such is glamorous—to impress upon a mind, a woman that changed with the currents: the tides of the seas, that inner yearning, that feeling of immortality: to chisel a fallin’ castle, as to rebirth, a rising son, to see it as miracles. We know for little, as one so young, mesmerized by the inappropriate. But what for right, streaming through generations, as one so rebellious. They imbue us, to feed this person, alert to its actions—to utter, “Cut it out. Stop that. I know you know something.” It’s an orientation, to get one to listen, where too much thinking alters the core. I took to this universe, as one filled with thoughts, a friend of dysfunction—to become this something.