you hugged me yesterday
and the smell of you is
still in my hair
catching me off guard
every time the breeze blows
from east to west and
my senses are assaulted
with nostalgia, and no sooner
i’ve identified the memory
it fails me and I forget as
my emotions settle back down
only for the breeze to rise again.
you send me pictures of the
two of us and my mind
instantly tears myself apart;
‘Look how huge your arms are,
your face is terrible these days,
you should be ashamed.’
But you say,
‘These pictures make me so happy.”
All you see is arms holding you,
and a face that is happy to be there—
you look at these pictures
and see love, and comfort, and safety.
It doesn’t matter that I don’t
know how to exist in a
body that looks like this,
all that matters is
I’m here.”
I’m nostalgic for a past
that never actually existed
in the way I had myself convinced.
Six-year-old me thought I was safe
because it was familiar, but
she was never safe there, not really.
It’s taken decades to find a place
where there’s no double meanings—
no veiled threats under compliments here.
I reach out my hand, it’s bigger now,
and show my little self around,
“it’s okay to be scared”, I say,
“We’re all we have,
but that’s enough.”
1988- 