 Family is a noun I keep in my pocket to warm me up on cold days. It’s a feeling that I get when I stare down the side of a mountain and scream because the world is so big and wonderful. I just want my voice to reach every corner of it. Mother and father aren’t only titles but incubators; I’m the chick growing day by day in the warm light of their sun. My older brother used to chase me and we'd yell at each other, trying to convince ourselves that the angst we felt inside was justified, but really, we needed more time under the safe umbrella of childhood. I could count our different homes on two hands, but it was okay-- two hands and ten fingers were plenty for holding onto everything I didn’t want to let go of. In each house, I left a piece of me hidden in the floorboards, hoping that someday I’d be able to revisit who I was before reality chipped away at my Technicolor dream world. I’d look around and smell my mom’s cooking, hear my dad’s jokes, and see my brother and I playing together and say– “This. Now this is what it meant to be free.” I still can close my eyes and we’re back in the fields, running after each other with the words hope & love & fear & forever tucked into our jeans. Our laughter becomes butterflies floating over those mountains, touching all the lands our skin will never feel and our voices will never fill. And we’ll breathe in and say together, “This. Now this is what it means to be free.” Connect with me!
Contact Me "Childhood" is an original poem by Victoria Harris.
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Victoria HarrisWriter, editor, and storyteller living in the Twin Cities.
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