Written in Grey

I met me, once.
I saw me sitting
on my childhood bed, crying.
Curled up with a paperback
I'd gotten from the library
the day before, when things were green.

That's how their days go, though.
One morning is bright,
shining light and calm waters,
cool breeze and the smell of fresh dirt
and mowed grass,
and by evening
the clouds have overtaken the sky,
and the birds
have fled to their nests,
finding comfort I can't have.

So they sit, crying,
hoping that their dad won't hear them.
Not knowing if
he is even around,
but the possibility
looms
like a poltergeist
in the shadows
in the corners of the room.

My eyes alight on me,
my brow creasing with compassion.
How I wish I could tell them the truth:

You will be one with yourself one day.
You will not remember your childhood very well.
One day, you will be free.
One day, you will have the strength
To thrive, despite your sickly roots.

But the words will not come.
So instead,
I sit next to me,
Hug me,
Give me the touch I crave,
Run my hands through my hair
and hum a tune softly:
a tune of hope
and joy --

and the peace
I know I haven't found.