Masks

Sometimes, I write for my father who taught me how to write my first letters of the alphabet. All before he was denied and taken from me, so fast, one could barely think to see. I remember him clapping when I learned to ride my red tricycle in the driveway. The encouragement he gave me, the freedom I had to be myself, run around and play. Then I saw the other side of a half family who had to control every action, every hour. Conditioned hard work, only achieve, hide feelings only pretend as everything went sour. Nothing was ever good enough, limits too hard to reach, criticism burned like a flame. Screams in the night went unheard as they always had to find someone to blame. But, I remember the crib I once had before, the toys in the corner of a bedroom left behind. It felt like it was the only thing that was mine and one day my own place I was determined to find. Like this early place where I learned it was ok to be me, so I fought things so relentlessly. I would do a lot someday, not because I am told I have to, my own purpose, it will be mighty. Fallen tears did not come from the masks I had to wear to survive that grueling other side. They fall with the freedom I have now to be all I can be, fostered by what they tried to hide. So, I write this one for my father who gave me food for my soul and taught me how to write. For it is from the pen I have survived every challenge put upon me, every single dark night. Heidi Sands