Growth

Hola beautiful people!  My posts have become more conversational over the last few days.  I'm squeezing in writing whenever I get a chance and I feel like I have so much to say and not enough space.  This phase is euphoria for a writer, the things that books are made of.  And sometimes if you don't see me writing here, trust that I'm writing somewhere.  Moving right along…


I'm getting older
Wisdom creaks between my once soft bones
Seasoned with weathering love and ferocious storms
The shadows of men in the neck of my collarbone 
And the grace of women watching the view from my cleavage
Looking in the mirror and seeing my grandmother's eyes staring back at me
Watching my hands transform into my mother's not necessarily soft but necessary nonetheless
Having the urge to delete voicemails from the past
Loving me from a space and time like stars in the constellation
Their light is reaching me far too late
The residual simmer of possibility
Though it's beautiful, I want to make stars instead of remembering them, wishing on them
Banking on the hard work of someone else
Their tears twinkling and how I've convinced myself that it's faith
Older
Wiser
Knowing no man is ever kept until I lose myself somewhere
Thus me learning to close my grandmother's eyes and open my mother's hands to a love that's a compass
A love that's substantial
That nourishes without destroying
That can remain quiet without being silent
Much like the desert, once an ocean, never bitter 
Always potent
Loving in the future tense
Knowing that who I've been and who I've loved is no indication of who I will be and who I should love but rather the boxes of hopscotch 
It's not till the very end that I can stand on my own two feet
Breathing heavy from hopping
Standing firm from travel
Loving the battle
Older and wiser
Childhood games were never made for grown women
But grown women were made from childhood games