Contact...

Joyfully,
I see the smiling faces peering at new photos.
I see the littlest ones joyful smile, just peeking in at the corner of the photo. Familiar. Reminiscent of her brothers.
I see bright, seemingly new clothing!
... and then I recognize...
Recognize that clothing from years past, had been drying on tree branches. They were.... Sunday clothes.
Recognize everyday shirts and pants show beneath these special day clothes.
Recognize those everyday clothes are the same from last year. And the one before. More weathered, faded, worn.

I notice the feet. Are they a pathway for parasite and disease?
I notice growth and lack of. A brother of ten as tall as the five?
I notice the the frailty. Frailty has returned and taken over another. Skeletal shadows show, again.
Sickness in time of harvest.
Malaria.
Sick.
Fucking mosquitoes.

My privilege reads debates on "Access and Affordability". Seriously? Are you fucking kidding?

Sick.
Heart sick.
It's familiar.
This knowing and not knowing.
This heart in another place.


I have to find a new stable. A new stable point of this knowing/unknowing of being the new normal. Of being in this privileged America and having family... not. Privilege is not transferable. My heart is unsettled.

We are here

We are here. Somewhere. We've been many places since the middle of June.

We sold our house. For the first time in 100's of years, that back yard belongs to someone outside my family.

After bouncing around a bit we've found a soft place to land. For a bit anyway. I'm having some feelings about it all. But we are together. Thriving. Trusting. Some days more than others.

I hope to be back here, writing again. Listening. Asking questions. It's not always about having 'my voice' heard. Mostly its about asking questions and processing the information. Sometimes- it's too important not to add your voice. Everyone's voice matters. It's powerful. It an be costly too.