327/ January 1, 2012 - Fare/wells
“Did you know that MacArthur was my brother?”, and my grandfather lets out a raspy laugh as if the oxygen in him had turned into a chain rattling up and down his throat. He says a lot of funny things too— he mixes up our names and he claims he sees children dart across our living room when no one’s there.
It is time, it’s about time, it will be time.
The start of new years have always been about goodbyes, and it’s about time I face it: there are a lot of things I have not let go of yet. Particularly, death. The past year was a chronology of things that died or things I let die. Roots and truth, ambition and love.
But of all the things I have to let go of, I must first let go of myself. There is a prayer in my body that sings of triumph; the strength of my limbs are ready to climb the troubled terrain of hearts, mine and yours. It is time, it’s about time, it will be time for death to die. My escape will be thunderous, hope will grow hands to clap for me, and I will run with wind rattling like chains not of last breaths, instead, first gasps.
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