Writing

Kintsugi

My mother is many things,
Nurturing is not one of them.

My first lesson was that love is pain,
A child should be obedient,
Unwaveringly loyal.

She wanted a perfect daughter,
Someone that would agree with every word she uttered,
I was almost good enough.

Almost.

But almost was not enough.

She broke me,
Her pretty little porcelain doll,
So brainwashed I did not understand that parents should not shatter their children.

With one hand she shattered the porcelain she had perfectly formed,
My pieces scattered,
Parts of my form disintegrated into dust.

Jagged ends lay in every direction,
Some so small I could not tell from what part of me they came.

Her next step should have been to rearrange all of me,
Glue each sliver upon sliver together,
To create her most desired whole.

Each side symmetrical,
A tongue that would only speak words of appraisal,
Hands that were small and delicate,
A mouth that closed when desired,
A body that would wait patiently for its master to return.

But she forgot that step.

She assumed the pieces would come together like magic,
Bowing to her every whim.

She was wrong.

My father found all of my remnants,
My grandmother supplied him with a brush and bowl,
The bowl filled with liquid gold,
The color matching exactly with the sunshine I had never been allowed.

He spent hours gluing each piece together,
Even when the jagged edges cut him,
His blood mixing with the gold,
He continued.

At the rising of the next sun,
I stood outside,
The rays filtered into my newly-seeing eyes,
The warmth surrounding me in a pillow of safety.

We both watched as the sunlight caught every crevice and crack of my body,
We both saw how each sliver of gold went alight,
Meeting golden light with light.

It was not until he held me close,
Wrapping tired arms around me,
That I finally felt whole,
Reborn.

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