Sunday 24 April 2011

Family tree

‘Take one day at a time’ they say. ‘Time heals all wounds’.

But, like a weed that insists on ruining my

lawn,

tainting the perfectly designed flowerbed of my life, I begin to remember and

continue to regret

I can’t unlearn what I’ve already been taught, I have to let it fade into far realms where my French conjugation tables lurk like ninjas who will one day, I’m sure, save me from the plights of a typical ignorant English-speaker

I sw---ing my legs on the edge of my mind.

I turn my head back

to the murky shadows, swaying seductively (swaying seductively), and contemplate walking in but fear being AMBUSHED by emotions and truths which I don’t know how to fight?

‘Pray’, I am told.

To who?

How can I forgive, let alone worship, something which has severed a branch from my family tree?

It wasn’t beautiful, okay, but it was mine.

It was meant to grow large, protective, canopies which shielded us from Life’s prevailing winds and God’s
Heavy
Tears.

Now a side’s missing and all I see are more parasitic wEEds taking advantage of the fact that the oak tree is not as kingly as it once was.

My feet tangle in the haphazardly strewn reeds and I fall,
fall,
fall.

My hands descend in front of my face, less than a few inches apart and

, in between them,

Is something different.

It’s reaching towards the sun, which is shining through the gaping hole from the missing branch, and is as toxic green as Nature itself.

It’s a seedling.

It is Life.

‘Take one day at a time’ they say. ‘Time heals all wounds’. But, like a weed that insists on ruining my lawn, tainting the perfectly designed flowerbed of my life, I begin to remember and continue to regret. I can’t unlearn what I’ve already been taught, I have to let it fade into far realms where my French conjugation tables lurk like ninjas who will one day, I’m sure, save me from the plights of a typical ignorant English-speaker. I swing my legs on the edge of my mind. I turn my head back to the murky shadows, swaying seductively, and contemplate walking in but fear being ambushed by emotions and truths which I don’t know how to fight. ‘Pray’, I am told. To who? How can I forgive, let alone worship, something which has severed a branch from my family tree? It wasn’t beautiful, okay, but it was mine. It was meant to grow large, protective, canopies which shielded us from Life’s prevailing winds and God’s heavy tears. Now a side’s missing and all I see are more parasitic weeds taking advantage of the fact that the oak tree is not as kingly as it once was. My feet tangle in the haphazardly strewn reeds and I fall, fall, fall. My hands descend in front of my face, less than a few inches apart and, in between them, is something different. It’s reaching towards the sun, which is shining through the gaping hole from the missing branch, and is as toxic green as Nature itself. It's a seedling. It is Life.

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