When it floods

Thank you, Andrea Gibson

I first heard the words of Andrea Gibson in a writing group called ALLOW, lead by

Jennifer Pastiloff

. It would be an understatement to share that this group changed my life and my direction. I returned to writing and taking myself seriously (just enough). My father was dying, and my family was in shock, denial, disbelief, and he’d been, in spirit, slowly pulling me back, asking for me, noticing details instead of rough outlines cut with scissors in the wrong hand, after pushing me away for so long. I was raw and terrified of the release of emotions I’d capped to prevent volcanic eruptions of pain and hurt and anguish and love and sadness from burning everyone around me with bright, hot lava. And then, Andrea Gibson. Their words and their delivery and their everything were a healing salve. Honesty. I will get back to my tale, but first, this:

Photo by Fouad Abou-Rizk on Unsplash

I miss my dad when it floods because he would be outraged and scared for me,

would curse the gods, his God, then ask for forgiveness, pushing

and pulling himself between ‘good boy’ and setting the world on fire.

I knew he made deals, like me

promises

left offerings

for the good fortunes he did not feel he deserved.

When it floods, I know he is holding steady, gripping

with his hands that can no longer hold

but I see him bracing, retaining the water from cresting the creek

wall. He says pack

a bag just in case. Grab

the girls and the dog and your things, just

fucking do it, Stephanie! And he’s scared and outraged

for me and because we let him go first over

the creek wall

spreading out into the infinite.