Last month I repotted my two plants.
They don't have names, though sometimes
I call them Fred and Bob as a joke.
They desperately needed bigger pots
to let their roots continue to grow.
I chose organic potting mix
and sunk my fingers in the loose dirt.
I chopped off my own roots years ago.
I dug a deep hole and buried my family in it,
and walked away, smiling
and free
No pictures remain, though memories still exist.
of screams and slaps and thuds
of early mornings spent getting my hair wrapped
in curlers in preparation for competitions
of bicycles and hay bales and ponies
of my grandmother crying beside her daughter's death bed.
I have Emily Dickinson'ed my life
cleaning and sterilizing it
placing my childhood memories on the back burner
smothering any gas fires that erupt
sweeping the drama under the bed
turning on the robot vacuum, watching it avoid any furniture
and dangerous emotions
I have created, increasingly and deliberately, a small life
out of dust and cobwebs
Yet I stand tall in my living room, towering over my personal space.
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