Mountains (a poem)

I wish I could say I miss you.

I wish it meant something to be apart for a week. A month. A year. Twenty years.

I wish I were different.

I wish I cared.

Every once in awhile I take out my past and roll it around in my hands, a ball of sharp edges. If I twirl the ball slowly, it can’t cut me any more.

Time has dulled some of the edges. Most past hurts can be left in the past. For that, I am grateful.

There’s still one mountain range across that ball. I once climbed these mountains thinking I would gladly suffer them. They are family peaks.

Family is all we have. Family doesn’t know how deep it cuts, or how high the mountains look to a child learning pain. 

Family says what it wants to say without thinking.

Family pretends it’s fine while the pieces crumble like old brick.

I wish I cared. I would, if you were happy. The lines of your face have grown hard. You may play poker with the best, but you don’t fool me.

I wish it meant more to be apart for a year, other than wishing it would have been longer.

I don’t miss you.

The next time we meet, my past will be a Baoding ball. 

Healed. 

Smooth.

Perfect.