I think we need to know they love us enough.
Enough to stay when it gets tough.
Enough to sit with us in the dark,
at the doctor's office,
in bed at night when air in our lungs feels like fire
and breathing is the world's most difficult challenge.
Enough to watch us sleep,
and eat,
and dance
and just exist.
Because our very existence is a form of magic
and they want to see our being unfold,
a painting painting itself,
even when the artist is not present.
Enough to listen to the stories we've already told
and laugh at the same jokes.
Enough to tell us they love us,
over and over again,
because words don't become worn out
if you speak them right.
Enough to hold our hand when it's sweaty
and accept the not-pretty
because they see so much fucking beauty surrounding it.
Enough to not hurt us,
to choose us some days
and other days to pretend they have,
pretend well
and lie well.
Because sometimes dishonesty
is the greatest kindness you can give to a human being.
Enough,
enough for us to feel safe and loved.
And the thing is,
enough is different for everyone.
For some people it takes an ocean,
vastness to be immersed into.
For others it takes a river,
direction
and current
and a sense of being taken away.
And for a few,
a few hiding in plain sight,
it takes rain.
Some days we need a drizzle.
Others a shower that soaks the ground.
And sometimes we need drought
to become again desert,
sand,
sun
and scorched ground.
To go back to the earth we came from.
To breathe in air that feels like fire
and exhale flames.
— m.f. // Gurf'a (the amount of water
that can be held in one hand)
