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I think the reason my tiredness will never truly be alleviated and I will never truly feel warm and safe is because my idea of safe and sound is so intangible.
when i say i'm tired and when i say i want to feel warm and when i say i want to be cradled and comforted, i mean i want to feel as i imagine i must've in my mothers womb. I want no worries and to be taken care of in the way a baby is. I want to be loved again just because I exist. I want to be held and told all the possibilities of our beautiful world.
And I want to grow into that beautiful little girl again. I want to be tucked in with the old flower crochet blanket on the pull out sofa bed in the mobile home up north that’s been there since the 60s. God I loved that mobile home. That’s what comfort was. The orangish-red chipping paint with the matching garage (which has a broken window because my dad accidentally kicked a soccer ball though it). The bookshelf tucked away in the corner of the living room with decades old books and magazines. The old radio that always sat on the couch-side table. The ashtray in the middle of the coffee table (which was horrendously heavy, I hated having to push it out of the way to pull out the sofa bed) that we used to burn ticks we found on ourselves. I was so scared of ticks. One time in 3rd grade, my teacher found one in my hair weeks after our trip that had gotten all big and gross. The out-of-date green shag carpet (set on top of existing carpet). The stacks of board games in the corner of the kitchen. Operator was missing half of the pieces but I still loved to play it. The games of apples-to-apples around the kitchen table late at night, and the omelets in a bag the following morning. The big metal bucket we’d fill with water to play in when it got too hot. The patch of sandy dirt under the trees and the old plastic sand toys I’d use in it. The decaying treehouse that was up the old dirt road and down into the woods, which was only located by one little notch in the side of the dirt road, then you just walked straight in, there was no trail down to it.
I think the notch is long-gone now, but I can still find that treehouse. I know those trees. I’ve played in that dirt. I’ve looked for good smores sticks and gotten too many ticks to count. I’ve watched my dad shoot his gun at a target he set up on the trees, and even watched him shoot a small explosive. I’ve watched my family set off fireworks (my sister was always more of a pyromaniac than I was). I’ve walked up and down that dirt road because every single year my mom tells me about the cottage that used to stand in the clearing at the end of it. I know those stars and I know those meteors. I claim it. I claim it all. The trees, the dirt, the stars, the dried up creek and the lake. I claim it just as it would claim me. I refuse to believe they don’t know me in return. This is the intangible comfort I long for. My mothers womb and mother Earth. I want them to claim me. I want to return to them. I want to be a baby again just as I long to return to stardust.
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