grief, in my head, incarceration, memoir

holding violets

I sniff words the way other people sniff flowers.

Roses can be red, but not read.

Violets are rarely blue, but most of us can’t say the same.

 

I still cry, like every awful thing that I ever lived through just happened, but also–

I still laugh, like every good thing I ever witnessed just happened all over again.

I’ve noticed more and more of the laughter in myself lately and I know it is because I am holding more and more joy in my arms.  My old happiness is a glass flower vase, still broken into shards, but I have begun to think the flowers survived the fall.

I have begun to think I survived the winter.

I still don’t know what to do with the vase.  I can’t put it back together.  I’ve cut and calloused my fingers trying, and it’s only made it harder to hold my violets.

I can’t throw the glass out.  It means too much, and I like to look at it and think of the colors of the garden it grew.  I like to look at it and think of how strong it was to hold so much of my world, how brave it was to be so transparent.

I like to look at it and think how lucky I was to have such a gift.

And some days, I like to let the broken pieces cut into me a little bit.  A penance, I think, for knowing that I dropped us both and only one of us shattered.

But it’s hard to cut when my hands are already full of violets, and lately they are always full of violets.  A vivacious bouquet of purples, never blues.

And a rose from yesterday, because it turns out it is still a very kind place.

And I find myself whistling again, and I heard myself sing again, and it turns out my own hands make for a very nice vase.

And it turns out, I’m happy.

It’s been so long, I was worried I’d forgotten how to hold it.

 

nanopoblano2018-notrim

23 thoughts on “holding violets”

  3. I’ve kept many “broken” things over the years, some are repaires some are reurporsed, but on rare occasion when something is so special you cannot fix it or even find a new use, it is gathered up and placed as a display. many will look and say “why is there this beautiful trophy case with nothing but glass shards,” but you’ll know, and that’s what counts.

    ECHO ECHO

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  7. Dunno if you can kintsugi a glass vase but you seem to be doing an amazing job of sifting your shards and sticking them back together with words, into stories, into a beauty only possible through brokenness.

    May you always have violets and roses, and meadows of golden poppies from now xxx

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  8. Pingback: Day 6 ā€“ NanoPoblano – “My Blood, Flowers & Kisses” by David Ellis – A Found Poem Inspired by “Since Feeling is First” by E.E. Cummings | toofulltowrite (I've started so I'll finish)

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