There is this not enough theme ribboning throughout my story.

Sometimes its satin curl weaves with the abrasive too much-jagged stretch of twine.

Not enough daughter, yet whose presence was too much.

Not thin enough, the world seeing this body as too full.

Not pretty enough…

Mom enough…

Good enough…

Smart enough–rough fraying edges intermittently choking out the lustrous band of sheen.

The ribbon–smooth and feminine– serves to remind of the delicate beauty I could never be, while brown jaggy frays define the ways my very love and self are undesired… unwanted.

These truths, contrasting, weave around the divine core of self.

The hands who have embroidered my inadequacies tighten their grip

Pulling, constricting my airway

As breaths become scarce, my search for you grows frantic.

Darkness, black and muggy, settles in, my eyes no longer able to adjust.

I think of you now, picturing your face.

Those kind eyes and the warmth of your smile.

My mind’s eye travels to your hands, fingers laced firmly around their handles, and they sit tightly in your palm–


In the instant my vision connects with their silver blades, peace floods me.

Memory can be a powerful thing.

Peace settles over me–I feel myself slipping into the surrender–becoming one with the tangles of pink satin and scaly twine…

In the dark I hear the door followed immediately by your nearly out-of-breath voice, “I’m sorry I’m late! Traffic!”

Snip snip.

The woven reminders will come again, their handlers eager to pull tight.

Today though, right now, their remnants lay scattered at our feet.

I am here.

You are here.

I can breathe.