It’s a lot.
The young girl wants to play.
They let her be the baby in the Momma and Papa game, but
she knows more about it than they do. She’s already been the Momma.
She sits outside the tent watching and waiting.
She warns them, but they don’t listen.
Reliability fades.
Her focus goes to the birds.
The right stories were not told,
The right lessons were not learned.
From the outside, it’s too much.
The ground, once solid, shifts under her, playing with her heartbeat.
Her heart jumps and spins dancing along the edge between balance and gravity.
The ground moves in front of her, behind her and stretches her,
Trapping her
Hugging her
until she’s swallowed.
She can’t keep up.
Too much
to know, to see,
to hear.
The song they sing.
She feels the pieces of her story being lifted up
And up.
With each drop of story, she fills up her cup.
With each blink, her peripherals expand.
With each heartbeat, the drum of her ear pays closer attention.
With each note, she broadens.
She can see the whole picture now
Once she knew,
It must’ve been too much
--to watch and not know more.
That’s a lot
For one childhood, one woman.
One life.
By the end,
It’s almost too much to listen to.
The story of the girl that learned to sing the song of the birds.