Another Brick in the Wall

Moss slippery, crusted with bird shit, clay-crumbled, rigid rectangles.

Unlike the large, colorful Jenga game on the sunporch...

If you remove one of my bricks, I might collapse.

Each brick integral to my structure and stability, despite the messy make-up.

I appreciate their blocky durability, sharp edges, unyielding.

Even when they rub and bruise my tender flesh, I refuse to let any go.

Why can’t I rid myself of unnecessary things, like pencil stubs worn down?

They’ve served their purpose. I should let go.

Fearful of the hole left behind.

Is that why childbirth traumatizes?

Not just the pressure and pain of growing and releasing a being…

There’s loss - the hole plugged for a time.

Filled with moving parts: heartbeat, blood, sinew and muscle.

Later, a gaping wound while those moving parts move on,

Without you.

As I stand assessing things, I hold tight to my remaining bricks.

Can’t afford losing anymore, even if they don’t serve me.

I grip them like old Christmas cards, Grandma’s chipped, flowery China and love letters.

They define me

They keep me tethered to the here and now.

I need these bricks of memory,

bricks of history,

bricks of life – to hold me in place.

When I jettisoned for new horizons, I gave up home.

Released its hold, rarely to return.

Maybe it was always there…

Shape-shifting into something I didn’t recognize.

Or maybe that was me.

Childhood home feels small – chaotic and sad.

Mother’s faded green velvet chair waits…

Melting ice in cheap vodka clinks as cigarette smoke swirls…

Her words slurred and sloppy, eyes misted over, runny and red.

Pat Sajak screaming out for another letter.

Every night… starting at five.

Other images too:

Cherry Jello popsicles dripping down our chins.

Saturday mornings with Wylie Coyote and Bugs Bunny, Dad's lemon-zest and spiced pancakes.

Sweat and sun-drenched summers running the neighborhood til fireflies flickered.

Yolk-yellow station wagon bulging, hooked precariously to the sailboat trailer.

Lots of mishaps in ten hours.

Lots of cigarette smoke.

These are the bricks of my upbringing:

Crusted clay rectangles forming me into the person I am today.

Daughter…Sister…. Wife… Mother… So many things to others.

What am I … to me?

Writer?

Explorer?

Dog whisperer?

My bricks are a mess of it all and I can’t bear to give any away.

Some days they’re heavy and awkward to haul around.

Some days I forget them – unconcerned if I’ve lost a few.

“Matter can neither be created nor destroyed” – echoes high school science class.

Nothing is ever lost or gained – so what does it matter?

It matters. Zen, I am not.

I compare my bricks to others. Does she have more? Are their bricks better than mine?

Sometimes I hide behind them, wanting invisibility.

I desire to blend in like the jewel-toned tree frog perched on an emerald palmetto spine.

Slipping into shadow, delicately balanced…

Watching…

Wishing for…

Another brick in the wall…