i wasn't really there. uh, well.. ya. i wasn't really there. when you say it it sounds so different than when i say it. i i wasn't really there. i was always moving away. i was always moving upwards, moving outwards. i was on skates. i was riding a bike. i was on an escalator. leaving. always in the process of leaving. you were never really ready to leave.
don't pull her apart and build her strong heart into the walls of your house. her bricks and mortar hold her power and her place together just right. and this fight in this light can't be captured in pieces. you have to swallow it whole. the depth of her reflection is sung clearly. her foundation does not need your inspection. it is sound. of course it is. that's just your privilege that copies and pastes this movement for your tastes, your scrapbook, your escapes from the moment. but to behold her as she is- a word soldier broad shouldered smashing boulders with verses so that you can stand down from from excuses with dignity. that is her gift to give, kindness. so don't stroll past, mindless, and extoll crap exclaiming to your fellow passengers of knowing who lives there. selfies at her gate do not raise the value of her estate or your experience. they underrate it. the view from her front porch cannot be shared of course so ask yourself - did i shingle that roof? did i fasten that door? did i dig out the basement? did i lay out that floor? likely not. up til now did you care? you weren't there. so turning up stones on her path won't awaken your grasp or give you an understanding of her past. don't assume welcome into her house. mistaking edification for invitation is no longer tolerable. and as your hand falls on the gate, wait. and at every moment after, ask - may i? knowing that the answer likely, should be - i will let you know, if you grow, someday, maybe.