I Am Here

Some remember the good old days

as if they were preserved in amber,

porch swings and Sunday hymns,

a father showing a child how to balance on earth.

My father wore heavy boots and a studded belt.

Floorboards and silence warned me of his coming.

I learned how to disappear.

I slept with my shoes on.

I kept my eyes open in the dark.

Morning light was a sentence being served.

Love was measured in what the body survived--

a fist in my hair,

car lighter pressed into my thigh,

hands squeezing my neck.

But I am still here.

That world did not end me.

This morning, coffee goes cold in my mug.

Stray cats wait like small blessings on my welcome mat.

My daughters end each conversation

with "Love you, Mom"--

words I hear as miracles.

I sing in my house.

The old days do not follow me.

They are behind a closed door.

I do not open it.

And if someone asks about the good old days,

I will say

I am here.

I am here.

I am here.