she wept

it's the allergies
she explained
it's not about yesterday's car wreck
or that i'm afraid i might die
(or worse: be locked inside the amusement park after closing)
its not that i have to hide during recess
to avoid explicit exclusion from 4-square

//she was seven
when she learned the art of explaining away
her tears, covering her sobs
with a cheap white sheet of excuses\\

it's the reveal on Extreme Home Makeover
she clarified
with its second chances
and community vibes
and ty pennington's charm
because it's not about the deadlines
it's definitely not that i hate
answering customer service complaints about
clothing displays that block natural light
and a rice cooker missing a lid

it's the onions
she resolved
it's not that every song reminds me
of that time we sat by a lake and dreamed
it has nothing to do with aching
to find myself but returning
empty-handed from every search
and it's certainly not about my most sincere words
stuck inside for fear of falling on deaf ears

it's because i just have to
she finally admitted
it's the anxiety and the tragedy
and the failure
it's not having all the answers
and half-dreading the ones i do have
it's the stagnation of wanting
to move forward after having stuck
my feet into quick-dry cement (for the thrill of leaving a print)
it's all of those things plus
the refreshing cleanse of forgiveness
and the wonder of healing
it's the laughter in late-night diners
(the joy of good eating)
and songs sung without words
it's the sweet pink frosting
spread across even the most bitter moments
it's the fortuitous discovery of photographs
from days of overalls and tube socks and butterfly clips

once at war with the tearful complaints of a languishing soul
at last she surrendered to the victorious battle-cry of freedom --
freed to feel --
and the freedom made her weep again.