Celebrate

Sometimes I think I’m a warrior.

I hear my 7 year old voice in my head

Playing mermaids and pirates,

Xena and Hercules defeating the bad guys.

Good triumphing over evil?

I knew, even then, that’s not how it works.

Sometimes the bad guys would win

and the hero would die.

My child self reminds me daily.

I am celebrating fortitude.

When I was younger I wanted to be a teacher,

I loved the idea of shaping young minds.

I could make changes, right from the beginning of their life.

I didn’t do that.

It was explained to me that to be a teacher in the system -

I would need robotic hardware.

My younger self rolled their eyes and said,

I told you so.

I am celebrating being divergent.

I use to pray every night before bed for every name I cared for,

like if I didn’t something bad would happen.

My fear of losing someone stems back to my father leaving us as kids I think.

I don’t do that anymore.

The line between me and God took a different turn when death took a stroll through my cares.

Can you celebrate life after grief?

My 7 year old self would be in the reflections

Looking back at me in the glass sliding door.

Wearing the Christmas outfit my mother had sown for me.

‘Don’t get your hopes up’ I would hear.

‘Good days always have a sad ending.’

‘Tread carefully now, the fun always ends.’

‘You are always the one left standing with the pieces in your cut hands.’

‘Stop trying so hard to save them.’

My phone was on my bedside on full volume

in case it rang when I was sleeping.

It was very important I be present.

I was always on call when my family and friends needed me.

I have been that way since I was 7

and I learnt to take care of my brother.

It’s on silent now.

There is no direct line from Heaven so no one is calling me now.

I guess I am celebrating acceptance here.

My Nanny use to make sherry trifle every year for Christmas lunch.

It was my favourite part of the day.

She still does, but I don’t go anymore.

Too many empty seats for me to stomach such custard.

I am celebrating self preservation.

I use to always say I would never get a tattoo.

Such beautiful skin to scar with black marks.

Somehow I heard that voice again.

Reminding me ‘I loved so fiercely -

That if I lost a love-

That scar would be far nastier than a tattoo.’

How could I know that?

So young and yet wise enough to know -

the fear of loss before it comes.

My 7 year old self was right.

I have a tattoo now.

I am celebrating choices.

I use to write love poems, absolute joy in sappy carefree end of the world romances.

I was so nieve, I thought my first love would last.

I don’t write like that anymore.

I found out there was more to life to write about than the perils of young love.

I grew up.

I am celebrating evolving.

I was 7 years old once, I looked into the mirror and saw my 7 year old self looking back at me.

My self told me to stop crying now.

I was made of glass, see through and fragile.

The world can see through the parts that make me,

But all they see is tainted by the colours of how they see their own world.

Now I’m a stain glassed window,

pieced back together by lead and blood.

I am celebrating the very act of getting back up off the ground.

I was once enmeshed in family holdings

I knew nothing better about.

I believed I was better off where I was.

I started to look closer and wake up.

I clawed my way out.

I ran so fast I forgot how to feel for a while.

Tonne of bricks when I remembered.

I am celebrating survival.

A fresh start is scary, but oddly alluring when met with new beginnings.

It’s hard not to spill all you came from to everyone you meet.

Like a tiny child, my story would spill out on pages like spilt milk.

Music would make me cry.

Poetry reared its head again.

Writing meant less surprise memories.

A new monster came to seize my existence.

Now I keep my story close, and strangers in the dark.

I am celebrating independence.

I met people worth my time,

Fell in love with the opposite of all I knew.

I tripped over speed bumps alot.

Grey clouds followed me everywhere,

Just waiting for a spring day-

A time to breathe.

All I wanted to do was make a difference, make someone smile, feel safe.

Me and my 7 year old self had a chat.

I left a lot of people behind in the end.

I am selective in who I keep around me now.

I am celebrating boundaries.

Took me a long time though-

I was kind to the wrong people.

In the wrong place.

I took a stand and I lost.

A lynch mob killed me.

Sometimes all you need is your father’s strong arms and a good get away car.

Or in my case, a stupid damn car and all that you hold dear bundled up in the back seat.

Still a home away from home brought me back to life.

I am celebrating being alive.

I looked in the mirror once again.

There looking back at me was my 7 year old self.

That young person I barely recognised.

But then I looked closer and I saw all the same lines on my face.

The little face said to me-

‘Well, somehow we always knew life was gonna be hard. That’s why I made you so tough.’

I will never let go of who I was back then,

Because who I am now is made up of all I was then.

I am celebrating resilience.

I have a fierce connection of love and hate with my creator.

A long list of questions I shall shout vehemently the first chance I get.

I have come to learn that everything happens for a reason,

But I question the circumstances anyway.

Nobody is perfect.

I am celebrating free will.

I found a home to make my own,

I walk the steps my father taught me.

The country air and peaceful singing birds,

Is where I’ll spend my years writing poetry.

I found some friends.

A great big community.

My family is safe.

I don’t feel alone.

I got a pony…

I see my younger self in my children.

I am celebrating my peace.

I am brilliant.

Fantastically resilient.

I think first and I always ask why.

I learnt to live inside the Blue box instead of walking around it looking for the front door.

I know where I came from.

I know where I’ve been.

I’m planting sunflowers wherever I go.

Watching my younger self skipping through them.

I am celebrating being a gardener at last.

I won’t apologise for knowing who I am now.

I am the sum of all the parts of the universe that I was lucky enough to ever know.

I will go out one day in a blaze of fiery words,

Old and grey and standing tall,

I will quietly stand by the reflection of my 7 year old self in the mirror.

I am celebrating being a poet.

By VJHD.writer

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Take all the parts that define you,

All the things that don’t-

every milestone you climbed,

every fall you took,

bring it all together,

write something beautiful.

It’s the least you can do for yourself.

VJHD