rites.

gathering up to gather in

I am wondering if I am welcome.

another surprise of rain has come,

this time cold and sleeting.

I wonder about the whys.

I wonder.

there are three years missing from the story with my dad.

and this time now

feels like that time then.

a sharp dance of knives and a long and weighted pause.

only, this time....

it occurs to me that I'll arrive with no stories.

the food will be prepared and I won't know the favorites, but by guessing.

the family will gather.

the ambivalence and anxiety swells.

what could I say to welcome him in?

what tender flowers could I offer?

I am the place on the page where the inkpen exploded.

An unavoidable proof of imperfection.

the thing that went to press before anyone could stop it.

again, I have to lean myself into the hope of trust.

this gravel path is a new geography,

this language, foreign.

I will show up with what I am.

it is all.

it is either enough,

or it is not.