All the Small Things

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.” -Sylvia Plath,  The Bell Jar

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Multitudes

I am my father’s calloused hands wrapped around my mother’s neck

I am the boots that beat him while he was shackled 

I am flipped kitchen tables and slammed doors 

and the birthday cards that say, “I am proud of you.” 

I am the sweat and bruises and grime that flow from a blue collar life like storm water 

I am my mother’s nimble fingers as she braids my hair 

I am the crashes and screams coming from her bedroom 

and the elbow noodles and tomato sauce that she spoons on my plate

I am her last five dollars sliding into the hands of another struggling mom outside of Walmart 

I am the gun against her temple and the lighter against the bed sheets  

and the sweeping relief when he walks away

I am my sister tucked into a corner of her closet 

I am the pleading desperation of her voice when she asks to be left alone 

I am the horse statues she collected and the puzzles that she built 

I am the first words she spoke after three and a half years of silence 

and the times she wishes she was dead

I am my brother’s resentment

I am his hand around my arm, squeezing until a bruise blossoms

I am his tears that fell in private after hours of degradation 

I am the food I stole from his plate before he was forced to eat

and the years he spent feeling like no one cared 

I am my dad’s bones, broken by his mother’s hands

I am the taunting jeers of his father

I am the trauma of his incarceration

I am the found family who took him in 

and the lack of accountability for harming the people he loves

I am my mother’s longing to be seen

I am the absence of her parents as they allowed her to be natured but sparingly nurtured 

I am the days, months, years when no one asked how she was doing or what she needed 

I am the humiliation of her half-brother’s hands on her body at night 

and the pain of slowly becoming invisible to herself. 

I am my grandmother’s embrace of the unknown 

I am the independence she forged among eight siblings while a war waged around her 

I am the knitting needles clinking together in her hands as she creates the power of comfort and warmth 

I am her voice through the phone: I love you, my star

I am my reservoir of compassion for hurt and the people who did the hurting 

I am the gentle softness of my body and the steadiness of my voice 

I am Jillian’s hand wrapped tightly around mine until my fingers tingled 

I am her pleading whispers for me to never let go

I am my friends gathered around my kitchen table and the times I let myself shine through my shame 

I am the freedom that I feel when surrounded by the vastness of the ocean and the beauty of the stars 

I am the corners of my mouth quirking up into a secret smile

I am, I am, I am.