stories 3

The stories we tell ourselves 

Not lies

but lifelines 

so we do not drown

How else could we bear the weight 

that drags the heart to the foot, 

manacles it with iron ball and chain? 

When our lovebird flew away, 

we told the story of how a bird must fly, 

It came to rest, it became well 

then it flew, how it flew,

it even came back to say farewell 

before it flew right away, 

so we did not lose it,

rather it wanted to be free.

When the blood cells in my mother-in-law's brain burst

we told her story of how she wanted to pass,

quickly, without pain or trouble to us,

(but how could her passing ever not trouble us?) 

When she was on breathing tubes for five days 

we told of how she lingered just long enough 

for us to wish her well on her journey. 

We continue to piece together a story 

of all her moments leading to the last breath, 

to show how it was all meant to be 

for that is the end of all stories we tell 

that what came to be 

was always meant to be 

so we can cleave the ball and chain, 

feel the heart float back up 

through blood, veins, tissues

pulsate through our shuddering body,

scarred yet ready 

to churn out new stories 

for grief that is yet to come