A Prose Poem
I Tripped on a Wound Today
We are Not Okay
I didn't think I was going to participate in today’s prompt. After trying to decide which scab I would pick away at, or pick at to explore the topic of healing, I got tired, and so I decided the task was too much for me to do today. But I am afraid the task found me.
You see I am walking, walking wounded now. My intergenerational trauma wound is showing: it was exposed, punctured, and is gushing blood into puddles on the floor of my heart, and on the helm of my soul.
The story's title read Channeling my Inner Anne Frank in a Pandemic followed by a correction from the PR Twitter feed of the SS in Germany aka The Globe and Mail who then said they were making a “Clarification” — not an “apology” but a correction, that the story should have read Lessons in Living from Anne Frank.
I am walking, walking wounded now.
I am sorry bubby Toby, you were right: they hate us, they always have and always will.
I am sorry bubby, your family died in vain.
I am sorry bubby, your baby was six months old in the ghettos of Transnistria.
I am sorry bubbe: your 12-year-old niece, Erica, was shot to death. I could still see the pain in your crystal blue fairy eyes…
