Family’s stuff vs my stuff what is my stuff and what do I WANT?

 My grandfathers fucking sculptures?

The placemats my grandmother kept on her table. These things. These things are not people. It’s easy to blur the lines when art in involved. It is them it is their spirit.

No it isn’t… happy trips to the thrift store … for my soul to feel myself.

i ponder and I sit distracted from unpacking what fits my life.

My own freedom not theirs. They are gone. 

They knew me as a girl. Not now. 

And the birds. Grandmothers birds.

Always filled with a chocolate for me. Now on the table. The sweetness. The golden sweetness of her never ending warmth and smile. My sweetness how it was 

All used up? on growing a boy and family. I’d love regeneration of that sweetness she had.

Her apple face grand daughter me. Only memories…even when good are sad.

And what’s my life? It’s been family caring and working.

What’s me? In this stuff?

I would never think twice about giving and sweetness.

Now I live what I’ve dreamed for years and feel the old leaving. There’s still effects I must heal.

Like I can or want to just take a nap and not care. I care and have energy now,

Whatever resonates and makes my legs feel like glitter. Like when I ran in the forest. In Oregon. That is what I’ll keep.

Cushion under my feet. Comfort.

What is me? It is incense and writing supplies. My writing. My art. 

Caring giving and loving. Hedonistic? Yes. Well. And hard work.

Make this home a home. Of community and friends and love and the yellow glow comes back.

It was not taken from me. 

( what I want. What I choose) 

Organized and whole. Utilitarian. Home. Contribute. Love.