Blessing the Soul with Helium

I twist my ankle in, toes rubbing side to side
Hands in my pockets, confused and sometimes angry

I suppose memories will always be there,
Like the clutter you save for some special use
Never thrown away, but always in the way

Yeah, memories, no matter where their stuffed
Seem to make their presence known on cold winter days like this
The crunchy brown leaves scraping the pavement as the wind shoves them about
Yet, unlike boxes stored away with tinge of papers, jars, and junk covered in dust
The remembering comes in drifts—
Stored in colored patches, they have cycles of rebirth
Catching one unprepared for its visitation and their offerings
No matter how much one convinces themselves, they carry a weight called "feel"
As if ordered or directed, moving you along in phases

Forgiveness though, an expensive grace when my blood is not yet clean
My nerves are still in knots! And the untangling is a distant being
Perhaps finding a reason to buy it is not hinged on your worthiness to have it

It will never be for you, can never be—as emeralds and rubies aren't instantaneous
You were always off scrambling for coal and a coat of soot as if it were a spontaneous treasure
Never knowing what you have, eyes always on the sparkling rock you could own
Blind to the mine you're caved in and the dirty lungs you speak with

Memories are a dealing, an offering of growth if one so chooses
I have felt dieing, I can appreciate life
Even the memories inviting themselves to thought, sometimes I smile
I can't help but wonder, is this the process of preparing
to give what my consciousness resists: a blessing of letting go and filling my soul with helium?
Maybe, I think so, I believe, I know

Susie