My very own life shifting drift off,
Time capsules of sort, placed into boxes
The past wrapped in paper, carefully taped
With black magic marker lettering;
Fragile, fine china, kitchen etc.
Every move has a purpose – an intention
– I recall thinking, nothing is by chance, nothing is a coincidence
Good, bad or indifferent the boxes pile up
All of my ghosts fly about; the blood line flows
Parents, aunt and uncles, cousins
Friends and lovers float by weaving patterns
Some circle, hearts, jagged edged broken lines
In message form; tugging at memories,
My heart strings
I capture tears by the handful,
My sense of loss
– My cup runneth over…
In the other room
Music fills the space
And a man, tall in stature
Sings and moves lovingly
With a sense of knowing,
Like an experienced navigator
Within my emotional prism
As I melt down on and off
Throughout the day,
An emotional tailspin
His heart and arms remain open
Even when I struggle
And when I pull away
He seems to appear like a magician
Ready willing and able to catch me
As I reluctantly let go and begin to fall…

©2020 TrilbyYates