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  • Sometimes, my burdens are a perfect fit to my shoulders, just big enough to bear until the weather turns to tears, and bent breathless, I double over with doubt. The word “wrong” erupts into a canopy of cloudy stale memories. W R O N G, it’s such a long word. Once spoken, it hesitates in the back of your throat, just hanging on your vocal chords, vibrating through all the words that follow. Suddenly, my life story is being strip searched for facts. The family ghosts seize my stories like contraband. I stand frozen in the flashlight shine, a thief stealing the truth from sacred secrets. The only thing that is totally mine, the memory of my life, is a betrayal, a forgery.

    It’s time to put down the dead weight of perceptions frozen in time. The only secrets are the stories I don’t tell. The only lies are the truths left buried in a blanket of shame. And so, I sit, eyes closed, searching for that place between one breath and another, that wisp of time where old photos are framed with forgiveness, where the word home, if only for an instant, hangs in the air like a bubble, an image of beauty too fragile to last. My history is a collective work of art in progress, fashioned from fact and fable, parable and prayer, petty poisons and heart shaped hopes. Beauty or burden, just big enough to bear, it is the clay of my creativity, imbued with the wisdom, skill and experience of my ancestors. The form is not a template to be followed but an inspiration, a suggestion of what is possible. It’s time to blow my stories, like seedlings, into the wind with the breath of a believer in all that is being better than all that was.
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