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  • I am whispering to you now.
    I am saying "It is what it is."
    Because I keep telling myself this so that I can live.
    Just live, not grow.
    Some might call it a "limiting belief". I don't care about those words or those people that say those words to me anymore. If you say those words to me, it is because you cannot hear your own sound in my whisper.
    So now I'll whisper again.
    "It is what it is.
    There are things you cannot change."

    Now let me say why I whisper into your heart. I cannot yell anymore. My voice is soft and disolves like paper ash when touched. Defying gravity, floating up right where your eye can see it. To where sounds like these don't belong.
    We are moving out of our house. Ejected.
    Our home is going into foreclosure.
    This is not a "limiting belief". These are true words that bite my heart.

    Let me whisper that I remember the first time through blind eyes I saw the crown molding, the creviced columns, the chandeliers in this house with unnecessary rooms that my children and I are leaving. Like a kid in a candy store we were. There was a light snow outside, covering the mud of a newly seeded yard of this unlived dwelling, when we saw the house for the first time. When we stepped out from the car, our boots sunk in brown mud that stained white snow. But I didn't care. We walked through the mud; we climbed through the unlocked window because we had found a way in to this life. I remember taking your hand at the bottom of the stairs. Finally feeling the words, "we made it, please be proud of us. Finally." To both sets of parents.

    Now I see the crown moulding isn't even real wood, through and through. The faulty foundation has led to water damage and residual black mold. That's a toughy. There's no walking away from that one. Dirty hands have left a stained trail up and down the stairs just like what you would find in any other house, on any other street.

    People, friends that mean well, offer advice, mostly based on what they've heard on the news or experienced only second hand. In the event of foreclosure, most would recommend completely gutting the place. In the foreclosure manual, you are to pilage the plumbing fixtures down to the door knobs. Sell it. If it's not nailed down, it's yours for the taking. After the bank liens, you are a trespasser in the place you nursed infants' mouths. Sell it all to the highest bidder. Get it all while the getting is good, so they say.

    But I think burning greed is what got me here in the first place.


    In the cool of the evening, I wanted my Fire to be dominion. Flower becomes fire; for weed and fire to become one because I believed I had some say in the matter. A sudden burst of gasoline trailing through, fire spraying my legs, gently singing my flesh while smoke stabbed my eyes. My children thought I was crazy when they caught me trying to burn down our garden. Watering the soil with ash underfoot, where all ash belongs.

    Still no death.

    Its not easy to kill a green thing. You cannot convince a green thing of its own mortality. You cannot convince a green thing of anything.

    There is too much living hope swelling through its veins to end in gray dormant ash. Even to ash as to water the earth with its papery light. Ash turns to nourishment, delight, pleasure for this souring earth.

    Ask me what I want and I would say to take a bit this half-dead life from my garden that mingles tended with weed to our new home. I will leave the chandlier for a pressed rose. I won't take the doorknobs, but may I harvest the seed from the black-eyed Susans? The tuber of the iris? A few peonies I will tuck in a bit of dirt in our new home. On Evergreen Lane. Forever believing the deeper the green the longer the cry for more.
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