Swaddled snug inside the womb, sprouting cells and veins-
A miracle of growing bone, you first learn of love and pain.
You listen carefully to foreign voices- an odd and pleasant din,
Hear them coo at you and marvel, filtered through barrier of skin.
They talk of your arrival, of diapers, and the end of season sales.
They talk of loud neighbors, of dogs, and who brought in the mail.
But they never tell you of the sun that spills in through the trees,
You do not hear of swollen heartstrings pulled taut by ocean breeze.
They never tell you of the nights that mock all your mistakes,
They never tell you of first loves and August-hot heartbreaks.
They never talk of book smells, nor of knit sweaters, soft and warm,
They never talk of tea with pie, had on the porch, during a storm.
They never talk of baby hands, or the times they’ve tried to pray-
They never tell you of growing old and searching for stolen days.
They never talk of strawberries, and the seasons passing by-
Nor of the people you’ll learn to need and how they all must die.
Mostly, they do not talk of how vulnerable and strong you’ll grow to be-
Perhaps it’s to be taken for granted, or just not for standard company…
…for here’s the common secret:
the truest things you know,
Try to never speak of them, and never let them show.
You’ll never hear them talk of this, but you’ll learn it in your youth-
We run ragged, and starve for comfort- and comfort scorns the truth.