It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.
I’m addicted to my son’s safety.
I think it’s possible that I’m constantly
thinking about his health and safety
because of my own childhood trauma-
of which he does not have.
Maybe it’s time I let images
of him laughing and running,
with his gleaming eyes and bouncing hair,
flood my thoughts. My trauma is not his.
I need to remember this and to be
better about it. I have such a deep
connection, and love for my son, that I can’t
fathom how any parent or guardian
couldn’t. And there I go, not being
better about it. Back to him running,
and laughing, and being loved.
A boy sits in his hectic mental lane waiting for the nothing to come. Where finally his mind is released and feels empty but not alone. Weightless and gone from the everything. The wind blew, shuffling the branches, he, hardly noticing felt the oncoming of the nothing and the wind was in the way. -M. Taggart