I Haven’t Framed a Photo in Years

I haven't been focused enough to be present—

let alone write about it.

I’m surrounded by portals into an old life

but never able to make myself fit. 

Why do I hide in past tense?

For me what’s passed

is trapped in the past 

and taking a pass at remembering

just doesn’t last. 

So what was it that moved me?

You see, I got a package this morning.

The return address gave me plenty of warning,

yet I still ripped it open despite the pit in my stomach forming.

What was inside you ask?

Well, it was me. 

I didn’t recognize the army boots—

the ones that came up to my knees,

or the one of me and my brothers hanging upside down in the trees.

Who were these people, and is that little girl me? 

She just looked so free.

Seems as though I’d been mourning

something that was stolen.

Not dead—just dying—slowly fading to nothing.

Millions of memories I never thought I’d get to see

But as it turns out, I just wasn’t ready.

Time has a funny way of holding back.

As you’re gripping the rope around your neck

suddenly, there’s slack.

Maybe it’s a friend, a coworker, or a lover.

For me, it was a packet of pictures my grandma recovered.

Long gone are the scrapbooks,

the fabrications, the lies.

All that’s left are broken pieces to scatter and divide.

When siblings are left to decide on things like trust—

the image of a perfect mother crumbles to dust.

It feels like a different lifetime—

like make-believe or a dream.

You see, I never wanted to believe

that things were as they seemed.

A stubborn kid and her father, a relationship redeemed.

Photos can’t hold lies, or secrets, or love.

It's about where they hang, 

where they lie, or where they’re shoved.

When they’re perfectly arranged on a page with hot glue

it makes you wonder who was the real you?

Images of all shapes and sizes torn free from their frames—

finally escaped from the glitter and ribbon chains.

Able to make my own connections—

to see the joy she used to hide from me—

able to form my own opinions, argue, actually disagree.

Why do we hang on to these portals—

bend and break our bones to try and fit through—

When we’re all just mortals

existing in a timeline too short

with no idea what we’re holding on to.

A family photo over the mantel with a huge crack in the frame

or the tattered miniature shoved in your wallet.

Rose tinted shades, or “family values”—

whatever you want to call it.

Time will heal all wounds but it can’t help you keep track of each hit.

Now, with the responsibility of recording my own past

I won’t be sorting through, editing out relationships that didn’t last.

Things are as they are because of who I was.

They are as they are because of that fuzz—

those memories that left me aren’t truly gone, 

as long as I honor them as time marches on.