A Glimpse Into Disorder
A nineteen-year-old boy
yes boy as trauma after trauma has stolen maturity from him as sure as any brain disease does
sprawled across his airplane seat, head resting on his father’s stomach, his 6-foot length uncontained in the confines of the tiny space.
As if Munch took the infant picture of his 20 inches cradled against his father’s chest then stretched and pulled until only the faces were recognizable.
The faces’ contentment and peace disordered into anguish and panic.
That picture. Taken by a father of his son, as a nascent father, before disease would steal almost everything but fiercest affection.
The Irish mother across the aisle doesn’t have time to judge. She is too busy believing her parenting skills will preserve her family.
Preserved berries in a jar,
a little too sweet to slather on, a little too old to smell the vibrancy stolen from them, a little too sticky to eat with your fingers.
My family was never preserved, stored up for a better time.
Mine is just one perfect berry lost inside the pint of rotten and moldy companions.
Too fragile to pluck hastily, in need of gentle cleaning to be freed from the disease consuming us.
It’s time to put on your shoes, “Look mum, I found one.”
It’s time to wake up, time to feel again.
Wake up my love, to torture with compassion.
Remember to breathe. 7 counts in. 10 counts out.
