This evening I sit upright at the humble desk in my sister’s office.
Keeping good posture seems colossally easier ;
now that Atlas is no longer a title I cling to.
I hold a silver pen in my palm;
it writes my sadness on the lips that press against its cold exterior.
Cold…though not lifeless.
I remember the fingers that placed it on my notebook –
they belong to a man who towered over me like a titan;
sounds like one too – with winter in his hair and an embrace I find myself missing on evenings when a neighbor’s kitchen greets me with memories of slow-cooked chicken.
He wasn’t my father –
even if I wished he would be someone I could feel safe being around,
and for a time…
The visualization of his hands places a plum in my throat;
A karmic gift for hurting his kin;
Atlas is lurking around the bend of my conscience:
To have loved so infinitely
To have caused pain in much the same way.
Tomorrow I will build a box for this pen,
I will wrap the pen in linen and immortalize its past,
Perhaps the steel body will remind me –
warms hearts when seeing the man who wears it;
smile at his daughter.