all of the little moves and the big ones
when I step back and look at my life, at how it’s grown over the last six years I feel the same way about all of the little moves and the big ones all of the people and the conversations all of the time sat in quiet with myself or crying or yelling sitting at a piano with the inner critic at full volume drowning out the sound of the keys day by day tapping away until I could hear the music first in my ears and then in my body feeling life at my touch responding to my movement a delicate and passionate and confusing game of connection and disconnection of coming back to myself to the boy who made houses out of boxes who cut birthday cards out of coloured paper and glue and wrote poetry under the swing seat in the rain collecting stones at beaches and assembling buildings out of k’nex until one day he said, what’s the point? there’s no money in art dad had said so so he studied economics instead and laid this part to rest but this boy lived on in dreams pleading to play again he called out in haiku and nostalgic music drawing back to the keyboard never giving up on me waiting to be seen in a slow journey of arrival he showed up with a coffee and a story of playing