I've lived long and hard. Seeking truths in swinging chairs and curving roads and lusty eyes and broken promises. I was a mother long before I birthed my own child, taking care, doing right, trying to make up for the wrong inside, the little girls that got hurt and ran away. Broken pieces left behind, some locked away, some floating behind, wanting to come home, waiting until it was safe.
Sometimes, they would jump in the drivers seat and steer the bus into a wreck, or off a cliff, and they always look familiar, like him, or her, or that time when... Then they could say this always happens, it's not safe to come home, I don't deserve to be happy.
But, sometimes, one will steer us down a familiar road, smashing into a brick wall, blazing fire and torment, and I will pause and ask why and unlock the heavy door, letting her out and holding her close while she sobs and sobs, ancient tears wetting my face, finally free. And as she contracts into the pain, dissolving into me, I expand in release, giggling and raw.
I am my mother, my father, my guru. I hold the keys to my own salvation. Only I can choose to unlock the doors and open the closets, pull out the treasures and dust them off, open the blinds and let in the light. I can make this home warm and inviting and safe.