The thing is
Over the course of a whole life
Some of us are different people
To different people
Some people know one of us
Without ever knowing
The other us
That only makes an appearance
Under certain circumstances
Around certain audiences
When under the influence
Of
A person
Or a situation
That’s out of our control
That makes us spiral
That makes us sick.
I don’t have warm, fuzzy memories
Of my own father
But I had them (have them)
Of her father.
She didn’t have warm, fuzzy memories
Of her own father.
In her grief
Years later
Still angry over a relationship
That was never to be
That was different
She shared with me
An awful discovery
And it’s tarnishing my own memory
Making me question my reality
His identity
Robbing me of
Those warm, fuzzy memories
I hold so dear.
The next day
She deleted the messages
But it was already too late.
My morning was out of order;
Woke up late
Didn’t meditate first
Signed on late to my Saturday morning zoom
Eight minutes late
Got stuck in the waiting room for another 15
Resorted to poetry
Late meditation
And the hope that she somehow reads this
And that someday
She can heal.
by Julie Blue 