The past is my family. Why would I want to leave it?

It’s where I  remember what my mother looks like and a belief my father is a super hero. A place where trusting little sibling eyes shine hope on my every move.  A pair of new shoes are heavenly and the smell of chlorine on my tanned skin is all the perfume I need to feel beautiful.

Why would I want to leave such a place?

The past grows fields of magical dandelions each promising a wish. If strong enough, I can blow my wish up to heaven where all good wishes go. But just like the members of my family, I watch each wish unceremoniously carried away by the justified wind.

The past I live in has a strong foundation of hunger, pain, torture and searing words, but what my home does not have is loneliness. My strength thrives in the past where mirrored faces and purpose fill its rooms.

If moving on means living an ambiguous life of grace where DNA does not exist, I choose to live in the past.

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