come boldly, with open arms and an open mind and an open heart
I know: you can’t. not yet, not now not again.
I know.
come boldly.
Author: Dayna E. Mazzuca
Inspiring Pause, because this moment matters
My Aunt’s House
at the start of the winding stairs is a picture I recognize, a face like my own,
from the country I heard was home, but not a place anyone could live—
only that it left those who left with a tremendous longing for a house;
one that looked just so and felt just right, filled with voices telling stories
and making jokes—unaccountable for the missing, the noisy saws and
hammers building, building, always rebuilding as if construction could
save the world one house, one family home at a time; and as I climb
these well-built, sturdy old steps I wonder too if it might be so—
hard to move forward
immobile
in the moment
waiting to hear
what you would say
have me hold
on my tongue
breathe in
to know who you are
and say I am
you seem upset, my friend
the last time we talked I heard something in your voice
suggesting all might not be well, but, between us, if
you’re upset and dissatisfied, then let me offer
you a place—permission—to go and forget,
to leave there, in that place, all I did or failed to do
for you—where I have fallen short, forget—
and I will too
ancient civilizations
the children ate in silence while mom whittled away the hours on her phone—
what were they thinking? of the banter between the people at the next table?
that face-to-face conversation was a foreign object in the food court in late
August, a week before the start of school, when mom could go back to work
and kids to learning history lessons such as the one we’re living through now?
gomaae
silence a solid object
to balance the noise
in the restaurant
on the most popular
night of the week
when conversation is
a ride at the waterpark
we drop through, survive
silence a plate of food
to eat with our eyes
a portal to escape
the buzz with
other needs deny
appearance
you came as a surprise
on my birthday, offering a purple scarf with silver-gray elephants,
something about holy images on a material piece of cloth meant to be worn—well,
you weren’t exactly sure how, but it didn’t seem to matter, being accurate,
when all you ever wanted was to be laughing and affectionate, deeply
loved in return, to be known as that friend who showed up
on my birthday, bearing gifts, however unsure
the years between might appear
