Why did you come here?
The question posed to me in the city I grew up in
the place I first saw snow –
what began as a logical answer quickly became a narrative
entrenched in the dramatic and the personal.
It’s so easy to miss the importance of your own story.
Smoothly lifting me with one majestic arm,
and falling into the sacred place in between your neck,
a combination of fireworks and radiating music
that I breathe in through parted lips,
intensifying colour, amplifying sound.
Anxiety, my oldest friend,
crept up behind me so slyly,
one blink and I would have missed it,
my default setting –
you acknowledged her presence before I even knew she was there,
and somewhere within the story of my father,
your arms wrapped me in a cocoon of safety and comfort
I did not know I need.
You carry me
with infallible courage and perpetual confidence,
holding hands, touching skin,
you catch my contradictions from my lullabies,
and I think I like it.
You are the lens that focuses my past,
I am the fog that destroys it.
Every word from your lips is encouraging,
every forceful grasp lights the fire within me
what else could you have done but absolutely nothing,
this overwhelming gratitude holds me on both sides,
I am rendered speechless,
mollified in wordless ecstasy,
imprisoned inside these giant hands that keep reaching,
nestled in with your invincibility,
and I keep reeling.