Member-only story
Things That Are Not For Sale
A list poem
The memory of the day I cracked my face against the crisp ice and my grandfather, aged eighty-two, rose up laughing and helped me drag the toboggan back uphill for another frigid run.
The first time I breathed in the blessed notes of Notre Dame cathedral and crept reverently into all the nooks and alcoves I could find to memorize the colored glass and incense and prayers of millions long since passed.
The day I flew a tiny Cessna in shaky circles and realized I could never leave my feet upon the earth for long again.
The fractures earned by running, running, running until my bones bent, then broke beneath the strain.
Twelve ribs, poking shyly through the gaining flesh after months of sharp, protruding edges felt in every meal I did not eat.
A million cups of coffee, sipped slowly while contemplating art and air and sky and fear.
The constellations of freckles earned from years of frolicking beneath our ancient sun.
The feel of a pen in my hand, tracing lines across pages that will last until time swallows them into the yawning gap of its infinite grace.
These are the things not for sale. These are the relics of a free and mighty soul.
Thank you for reading! My debut poetry collection, The Weight of Need: Poems on Life, Longing, and Love by Lorna M. Rogahn, is available on Amazon.
