I sit at the window and stare;
There are thoughts inside me,
Tangled into balls I can’t unravel.
And so, the words that escape
As the knots on them break,
Are from this thought and that,
A tapestry he cannot understand.
He comes in again with a painting,
“Look at this one,” he nudges gently.
I remember this one too:
The ripples in the water near the boats,
The boatman entering, not leaving,
As his teacher had showed him;
The hold of his fingers as he
Negotiated the curves of the boats
With a brush too long for balance.
These stories hidden inside me-
Pieces of my life, his childhood-
Are unable to find a form outside,
A form he can recognize.
These stories that make me –
The me before the tangles and knots
Took away the meaning of thoughts,
Took away my filling smiles,
And left behind an inexplicable pain
That refuses to go away.
These stories I cannot share,
Because the chains of my logic
He cannot understand.
Perhaps that’s why I’d put my self
Into everything in this house
For him to rediscover today.
All the old pictures and paintings,
The books and diaries and my writings too.
The stories are now in these things outside,
And its all that’s coherent to him,
And now – perhaps- everything that I am.