These roots of mine are the base of a tree, growing deep into the ground. I can feel the dirt beneath me, between my toes, and suddenly I am a part of everything.
You see, this air that I breathe, and the words that flow through it, are not solely mine; they are made of experiences I’ve had, the places I’ve been, the people I’ve loved and the ones I’ve lost-- I’ve taken their words and molded them into Something greater, bigger than me.
I keep certain memories safe in a box by my bed and when I need it, I lift the lid and everyone is back again, parading through the room like a film, projecting on the walls, but then the tape is crackling, crinkling, and running out. How do I make it stop?
I can hold these moments in my arms, tighter than the stuffed animals I would squeeze until they were broken, too.
Eventually there’s only dust, falling toward the Earth and the dirt and my muddy roots growing toward the center of the world.
I can hold you that way, too, if you’ll let me. I’ll try my best not to break you, but just absorb you until only one tree is left standing, facing the wind in the afternoon sun.