If I could write a book
I would title it
“Parents Aren’t Perfect.”
Its small cardboard pages
would house messily crafted stick families
and moms and dads
whose outsides
mirrored their insides:
nests of frail branches
cradling paper hearts.
Inside its bright cover
would lie a showcase of plays
triumphs and mistakes
performed by two lead characters
while their children
rotated between playing
the audience
star and
villain.
Simple words would serve
to validate the child
confused and hurt
while molding their world
their beliefs
their confidence
through these interactions.
Included
a gentle reminder
that these people are humans
riddled deep with fractures
from when they too molded their world
according to their imperfect parent’s reflections.
Generations of flaws
and faulty beliefs
heavy heirlooms
shackling one family
to the next.
The “Read When You’re Older” section
would produce a symphony of hope
along the lines of
retracing the steps
finding the wisdom in the experiences
and attempting to leave
the tarnished remains of childhood behind.
Acknowledgment
grief
processing
acceptance
and forgiveness
would appear as felt stepping stones
each miles long
and at first glance without end.
Lastly, an ending statement.
Something like
It hurts
It sucks
But it’s not about you
it’s about them
and it doesn’t have to be about you anymore
You write the next chapter
you cast the final act
you have the choice.
Keep the heirloom
pearls tightly fastened round your neck
twisting and tangling through your blood
and the blood of your seed
or do the work
and search deep within yourself
grasp the chain
and unclasp it.
Once the book was complete
I’d print five copies
one for each lamb
whose white wool
has already begun to be tainted
with specks and snags
evidence of my mistakes
carelessness and
imperfections.
I’d read it to them every day
their soft heads cradled in my lap
pausing between page turns
to ask for forgiveness
and understanding
for the nest of frail branches
cradling a paper heart
that they call mom.
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