You’re struggling to carry the heat
of what I left behind.
Each memory is a spark
that refuses to go out.
You let it settle where it wants.
Your skin flinches.
Fire isn’t personal.
It burns what it will.
It presses against the parts of you
that cannot understand me.
You fold.
I do not enjoy this.
It is not vengeance.
It is compassion, in the way the body can be cruel
without meaning to be.
Perhaps one day you will understand.
Perhaps not.
The point is not to see it now,
but to feel it, quietly,
and walk forward.
And when the ache subsides,
you will carry something lighter,
or heavier,
depending on how you measure it.
I do not name the rising.
It will happen, anyway.
About the Creator
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December 8, 1980
When I was six or seven, my stepdad came into my life, and I remember thinking he knew everything. He could befriend anybody, anywhere. In grocery stores, he chatted with strangers over cuts of meat; at gas stations, he bonded with people pumping fuel over how the smell of gasoline was disgusting and yet enjoyable. In restaurants, he took an interest in waiters’ lives—like Steve, whose father was dying of cancer. When Steve’s dad died, my new dad attended the funeral.
By Tina D. LopezExclusive • 2 months ago
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