Stained Glass Interior Pages
My mother used to say,
“This won't hurt a bit.” She loved
to move around, uproot herself, be
in new places all the time. I liked
to be by myself. I never shared my life
willingly, even though I had a sister,
a husband, a son. Part of me stayed
solitary. I thought of myself as
transparent, yet none of these people,
whom I loved, knew me. My mother
least of all. I hate being torn
from my place, hate the feeling
of being repotted, that shock the plant
feels in new earth, being set
in a different window, maybe.
I shake all over, inside,
gasp, then, like a puppy
thrown into a creek,
set myself on my own sturdy legs,
walk ashore, cascading water off my skin,
flopping on the grass to dry in the sun.
Life can be good, when I get used to it,
but it is never easy for me;
it often hurts quite a lot.
