Storms and Iron Corsets

As a woman, I cannot abide a caged bird – or a caged anything.

Mom was beaten with Grandfather's leather belt which meant she left home early. He didn't come to her wedding but he lived with us as he died a slow, suffocating death. Does she hold a grudge? Yes and no. Does she remain caged? Yes, though she only glimpses the gilded skeleton of her cell on occasion.

It was not my father who taught me to fish. It was my grandfather, struggling to breathe in the thick mist of a lake morning.

Together we have known the river, my love. Now what about the sea?

My body didn't exist in Vermont, let alone, hurt. Ankles didn't turn or get sore. Ribs didn't feel as though they were being crushed, tighter and tighter, by an iron corset. Yet the moment I returned to Michigan, so too the pain. I hobble back from walks too long and my back feels like the day after a car accident. I never told you about that, did I? “Next time” gathers and grows, yet with no promise.

A second and third round of storms bring down nests and branches and power lines. Well one good thing is that I find myself humming “Shelter from the Storm” and smiling about all that you've given.