The Hardest Pill
How can I say what I'm like?
It's easier
to talk about you.
Or them.
My mother
was like peering from the dark and cold
through a window to a fire-lit room,
full of odds and ends from times that were concrete,
decadent with materialism... routine.
You can only see the outline
of her face turned but you know
its radiating warmth, her eyes
flashing with an intensity
that's sometimes meaningless to you.
An enigma, but still
you feel steadier on your feet
just by looking in.
My father
was a flat surface, and you know
there's something underneath but it's rarely used,
much less seen. His voice
was a soothing vibration of practicalities,
and not much else.
But that was enough.
My step-father too,
a large man with a large capacity
to solve everything we'd throw out,
a solid mixture of no-bull*****goodness,
like it was easy.
I was lucky I know.
And I've been here and there...
There's too many things
I'd think was important,
that didn't turn out to be,
that I thought made me
who I was...
But I don't feel the connections
driving me, knowing ourselves
through and through
is the hardest pill
we can never swallow.
Who are you?
Instead, tell me
where it is you wanna go,
and maybe
I'll take me with you.
Copyright © Erin Beckett | Year Posted 2013
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