You took my hand as I took my first steps slowly you let go and I stepped on my my own you held my bike running along side me as I pedaled and once again you released me to pedal the bike on my own.
You took the car keys and put them in my hand you taught me to drive and when I had learned what you were Teaching me you let me free on the open road .
You took me off to college and let me go on my own to grow in search of knowledge .
what I learned was that you were my first teacher in life with that you gave me the ability to be me .Strong and independent you let me be .
As my Greatest Teacher and father always there for the all the moments in my life . You had a hand in the future .
You stood by me ready to catch me if i fell , Too pick me up and put on my own two feet again to stand proud and pursue life ,
My gratefulness and love is with you .
My hand is still holding yours. I took your hand Now So you don't fall. I wont let you go. I wont let you fall . I can not release you as you did for me , life has changed for all .
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova6 days ago in Poets
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