For nearly five years they rode around in the trunks of cars.
In a box meant to hold four, a box meant to protect.
Passed around from person to person to person.
Carried through every station of life and death.
Knowing they belonged to her. An inheritance neglected.
It was my burden to carry, mine to own.
It was unfair to foist it onto others.
I know this now.
Actually I have known it all along.
And I feel ashamed.
I could have reclaimed them at any time.
But I didn't until now.
Largely because I didn't want to deal with them.
Because dealing with them means acceptance.
Acceptance is something I don't do well so I avoid it.
Avoid what I am afraid to confront.
Confront what is past, what I cannot control, fix or change.
Change never comes easy. Anxiety coping mechanisms fail.
Easy is the road others have taken. Not the road I chose.
Now I have them back, but I am still searching.
Not feeling the closure I believed I would have by now.
You can’t give away your grief or sense of loss.
No more than the universe can give away dead stars.
Three flutes that don't make a sound.
A silence echoing the emptiness.
In a small pocket-sized space in my heart.
Targeting the East Village
20 hours ago