My Eyes Have Learned to Water

…so long before they were dry.

Tears eluded me as if to cry was to fall forward down deep into the dark of what I feared most. How can one be so afraid and yet have nothing at which to point? Layers stack like bricks through time, cementing what is not meant to be permanent as if protection was the way. They are heavier when being dug up. The sticky reaches back to itself too afraid to feel the chill of the air now flowing between what was once pressed together, and is now naked unto itself. What becomes of the gaze when we do not recognize ourselves? I trace my face like braille to understand the causes and conditions; what pointed me toward the wall face forward staring into the barren? When there is no place for the holding, no wind that sweeps up to catch the fire, it leaves.

Brick by brick.

I continue to lift my way toward the undoing. I’ve learned to wear gloves strong enough to keep steady the way. I know deeply the necessity of digging. It leads me in the direction of the well where the water runs. I have found my tears there at the bottom just before the sinking. When I blink the water falls and the well remembers itself. This is how I heal my way back to the start of the beginning. This is how I reclaim what had once gone barren, but is now fertile.

The watering—I see now the birthing.