Healing Embrace

As a young girl, I grew up in a home where holes of anger were found in our walls, where my feet bled from the eggshells that scattered our floors. Where an embrace from my siblings came from fear, not love. My skin untouched, yet the havoc of terror developed in my mind—causing a life of unknowing trauma.

There were good days, though. Days when games were played and my mother’s cries and screams didn’t echo through the halls. When my heart forgot the past of yesterday and how the shards of broken glass still huddle quietly in the corner of our living room—afraid their shattered pieces will never be whole.

Yet, I can’t recall them.

Oh, how I wish I could remember those days. My brother gives me detail by detail of a family adventure to the park, and I smile to ease his sorrowful heart. Because telling him I only remember the car ride—the way their smiles faded within seconds, how the shouting vacuumed the air from our lungs—well, that would do no good.

I couldn’t tell him that, for as long as I can remember, my body has been rigid, encased in stone, unable to breathe. So instead, I smile. And when we part, I hug him tight—so he knows not all embraces come from the dark