Gentle breath, an infant’s breath, soft and rhythmic, no yearning

because all one’s needs are met. The cradle, like the arms

of Mother; the cottony soft blanket as tender

against the skin as Father’s breath. Hope. Promise.

It didn’t turn out that way. Mother wanted

a Princess, Father wanted a Queen. Brothers wanted to be seen.  Teachers

wanted a puppet. Neighbors wanted a ghost. Friends, there were

no friends. Me? I wanted to feel at home where I was

and since I could not I wandered. And the night air

through the dusty metal screen, and the cars on the highway

and the shadows in the woods, and the dusty path between

the briars became Home. And because of those things

I learned

how to be on my own.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019