Weave

My fabric is woven from threads
Cut, spun and dyed
With the colors of a multi-national upbringing

My memory craves the tastes of
Croqueta, eel and sometimes olleyballe,
Saved for the days that mark great transitions and small celebrations

December brings thrills of excitement as I wait
For the packages signed From Santa in my dad’s scrawl
And gifts from Sinter Klaus penned just like mother’s

Long plane rides and short visits
Words not recognizable and still so familiar
Dutch and American differences that make me neither the norm here or there

Loud days fighting, quite nights brooding
Arguments, often and over nothing
Expectations, silent, for me to be something

Ravines widen and deepen
Emotions become scarred---hidden
Fractures, many, many fractures

Loss of control, need for control, self-control, found control
Less food, less sleep, less self
Less and less controlled achieved

Finally, the smell of smoke
A warning of a fire of self
An awareness of the future cost to be extracted

Bandaids, ointment, friendships
Praying, crying
Hurting out-loud and learning to heal out-loud

New sprouts, green life
Remembering Sinter Klaus
Talking, sharing, baking foreign treats

My life rests on the loom
Pulled taut—made strong
New patterns merging with the old