I AM HER

I am the petals of life withering with time.

I hear the orchestras of Nostalgia playing Mother’s favourite song.

I wonder about turning five again, viewing the world from my father’s back.

I see my grandmother’s home, her faint smile visiting me from the shelf of good memories.

I want dinner with giggles sans the fear of an argument breaking out.

I pretend escaping home is what I need.

I fear walking home to find my parents withered away.

I touch the fabric of the dress my father sneaked into my luggage.

I dream of dancing in the kitchen with Mother, dizzy with happiness, in the present for once.

I try to gather every traumatized piece of my being to mould it into a healed, compassionate clay pot.

I understand when Mother said, “One day, you will want to return, but you will not be able to.”

I hope I get to go home.

I am who I am in my dysfunctional home.