...holding the breakable.

You step into the endless grey
Overshadowed by the shadows
Standing back in the moonlight of my past

And I am taken aback
In the sunlight of my present
By the abruptness—

Of my heart’s heavy beating
Bringing up the flood from the floor
Over which it spread

Like wildfire
Welding together that past
And this present

Until they merge
In the moment when I glance back
And see the new colors

Spreading over those same shadows
Like the wildfire you create
In the endless future of ours

I write not only for others to understand, but also to understand myself.
I write because of my past person in order to face my future one.
I write for my preschool self—The first to freely flee her mother and take off in a quest for independence that has not subdued since.
I write for my kindergarten teacher who taught me that I could go against the grain and say the blue bears equaled the red bears and still be right.
I write for my first grade leadership—fearless taker-downer of the mischief classmates havocked and the turner-inner even when it was uncool.
I write for my second grade imagination—Captivated by Harry Potter and garden spiders caught by me and my daddy and kept in the classroom.
I write for my third grade ingenuity that placed me at a table with the lights low doing long division when everyone else did short.
I write for my fourth grade discovery of 4-H and the life-altering journey that started with a future Sigma Kappa sister, an egg as a gavel, and a presentation about homemade ice cream.
I write for my fifth grade friendship, solidifying the one that continues to be called my best.
I write for my sixth grade transition to French horn and figuring out lockers and lanky legs.
I write for my seventh grade notebook—the place in which my childhood to that point was kept in yellow and black ink.
I write for my eighth grade all-boys’-except-for-me soccer team—the reason I strongly hold my own.
I write for my ninth grade grievances towards my mother and the dress code I only wanted to break every other day.
I write for my tenth grade acceptance of the most diverse group of friends Southwest Virginia has to offer—a Mormon, a Jew, an atheist, an Asian, a Catholic Methodist, and an LSU fan.
I write for my eleventh grade reality—new home, new school, new reasons to bask in the sunlight instead of hiding in the cool.
I write for my twelfth grade thunderstorm of two graduation speeches and an acceptance letter.
I write for my present self—for the woman I became as a result of it all and for the woman I became as a result of influences.
I write for the woman who bore me and manifests herself daily within me.
I write for the man who hitch hiked from Yellowstone to Richlands and calls me “Chick-a-dee.”
I write for those that circle me as guardian angels and hold my hand when I walk home from the library alone.
I write for the one constant—my Savior, my God.
I write for everything that is and was and will be.
I write for me—

Death looked at me, confused
Unsure of why I smiled
Unsure why I had peace of mind
Unsure of why my eyes were dry

She gently turned me back around
And peered into my soul
Unsure of why I, unalarmed
Was grinning, unconsoled

She calmly looked me up and down
She calmly took my hand
And calmly whispered, “Patty,
Your new home’s upward bound”

“But have you nothing in this world
You’ll hate to leave behind?
Have you no one in this world
To whom you feel inclined”

With whom you share grand love
For whom you blossomed feelings
For the one ‘who’ who will miss you
When they find you’re up above?”

So, I calmly looked at Death
I calmly took her hand
I calmly whispered, “Lovely,
My ‘who’s’ above already”