My earliest memory, decades old

Wooden chair and brown thatched roof.

Eyes blurry, my young cheeks moist

Grandpa’s arms felt bulletproof. 

Promised comfort, my safe harbor

I never had need to look too far.

We rocked slowly on that wooden chair 

‘Sit with it’ he said, voice calm.

But I don’t want to, I was adamant

‘Feelings don’t seem like my friend.’

His eyes crinkled, stifling a smile

‘Sit with it,’ he told me again. 

I’ve spent most my life on the run

From facing feelings like I should,

Now they tell me the house is for sale

Empty chair, brown thatched roof.

I stare numbly at the broken house, 

Ramshackle ruins stare back at me.

I run back home, no tears to cry

But those feelings wait patiently. 

The mess is old, the blood begins

Like picking at half-healed scabs.

‘Sit with it’ I tell myself,

Picture the safety of grandpa’s lap. 

Sometimes I wonder, did he think

I’d never listen to his words? 

What I’d give for him to see me now

Comforting others when they’re hurt.

As anger and pain swim around me

And people flee from what they feel,

Sit with it, I try to gently tell them

And like me, I pray they heal.