<p>After you grew, you let yourself slip
</p><p>Back to the place where shadows whispered your name,
</p><p>Where the hurtful gaze seared through your soul.
</p><p>Some say you were blinded by love,
</p><p>That was why you endured the verbal slaps,
</p><p>The virtual kicks that bruised more than skin.
</p><p>You never gave as good as you got
</p><p>Perhaps because you never received as good as you gave.
</p><p><br></p><p>In moments like this, when I sit and remember you,
</p><p>Wet anger boils out of me.
</p><p>I want to reprimand you,
</p><p>Shake you free from those chains,
</p><p>But it’s too late to teach you new tricks,
</p><p>Too late to mend what’s already broken.
</p><p><br></p><p>Out of the blues, you grew,
</p><p>in magnificence, as much as in horror,
</p><p>You grew horns as sharp as your newfound resolve,
</p><p>Dished out rewards on those who wronged you.
</p><p>And though I’m proud of the vileness of your crime,
</p><p>A bitter pride it is,</p><p>For what have we become?
</p><p><br></p><p>At least they deserved every blow you dealt,
</p><p>And if I threw in a punch or two,
</p><p>Nothing feels amiss, nothing feels wrong.
</p><p>It was a time to let live and a time to live,
</p><p>But at what cost to my soul?
</p><p><br></p><p>I remember when fondness was your only language,
</p><p>It was in the words you gave me and,
</p><p>the way you hugged me wholly.
</p><p>Not even the street peddlers or beggars can deny the tune your heart sings with.
</p><p>But now, the tune has changed,
</p><p>The discord now echoes with noisy pain.
</p><p><br></p><p>The stern hand still resounds,
</p><p>The hard smile before the harder kick
</p><p>These days, even your eyes speak of resistance,
</p><p>Though your heart remains true,
</p><p>A thin layer of ice has formed where once was fire.
</p><p><br></p><p>I got so used to your old voice,
</p><p>But the one you use now is Greek, Zulu, and Venda to my ears.
</p><p>That hard stare buckles my knees,
</p><p>Your fangs dig deep when I reach out,
</p><p>I am no stranger to them, but,
</p><p>they only used to care in my memories.
</p><p><br></p><p>I could have forgiven the hurt if you were grey and frail,
</p><p>But there’s nothing aged about "65".</p><p>When I sat at your knee, listening to your lonely old tales,
</p><p>You should have told me to hold them in place,
</p><p>To keep them safe for a day like this
</p><p>I would have planned for this rainy day.
</p><p><br></p><p>Now, you’re a blank slate, akin to a child,
</p><p>And time was never our ally,
</p><p>We don’t have all day to fill you with beautiful memories.
</p><p>And I’m left here, grasping at the shadows of yesterdays realities,
</p><p>Hoping that somewhere, beneath the ice,
</p><p>The warmth of your old heart still lingers.
</p><p><br></p><p>
</p><p>
</p><p>
</p><p>
</p><p>
</p><p>
</p><p>
</p><p>
</p><p>
</p>
LAYERS OF MEMORY AND ICE
By
Chidera Odom