Our demons are old tight skin, we refuse to shed.
I want to grasp meaning, depth, a wise silence but it is always lost in
continuous moments of haste, empty talk, or frustration.
I want to understand, but I have no patience,
I stumble in such painful falls, believing I have control.
When I cry, and suffer, and callout in despair why is this happening to me?
I see a tree, not even trying to block the wind, but letting it through.
I meet my sister, who tells me of her lavish vacation plans.
I offer to drive her to the airport. We don’t talk of our grief;
my livelihood predicament, her brooding for a child;
The holes in our worn-out shoes.
She, secretly wishing for my chains,
I, secretly wishing for hers.
Why does life continue to laugh at us?