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.