My Brigade

My family told me that my poetry is vulnerable and healing. I smiled as my mind tuned out the noise. I found myself examining the movement of their mouths, the way their eyes bounced from face to face—lost in the bittersweetness of conversation.

I studied their faces and the intricate pattern of freckles and lines—my brigade. Silent warriors who exude happiness and love despite the battles we fought too often.

They say my poetry is vulnerable—

The pain and heartache transported through the ink of my pen and the keyboard of my phone. Each scribble or click an opportunity to heal, to forgive, to grow.

I don’t know who I write for, but I sit here examining the furrow of their brows, the curve of their smiles, the sound of their laughter, and I remind myself that at 15 years old, I didn’t think we’d survive like we did. I didn’t expect my mother to find her voice, for my brother to see his light, for my sister to open her heart. I didn’t know we’d end up sitting in sunshine, embraced in the love of my grandparents as we laughed and cried. I didn’t know happiness was so close when it felt so far out of reach.

They say my poetry is vulnerable—

So as it caresses our wounds and heals our pain, I’ll continue to feel the warmth of sunshine on my skin that was so close to being an icy burn.