Standing as a tree. Wavering and bending while a gale force wind rubs my back.

My life behind me: The fibrous history of traumas and tribulations wrapping me like a blanket. Ribbons and scarves remaining trapped between my solid form and the breeze.

Memories. Actions. Piling up like sticks caught in a dam.

Thoughts. Regrets. Teasing threads dancing in the wind.

My past isn’t shifting, even when the air stream changes direction.

It is an interesting visual dilemma. Something Salvador Dali would create:

Am I crawling out from a funnel of collected tatters?

Or am I standing tall to life’s experiences that continually batter?

Regardless, this tug-o-war has me exhausted (yet I am still standing).

When death comes nigh, I will crumble. I will lay down upon this earth which bore me.

Only then will the remnants and patches of my life find passage – and blow away like dust in the wind.

*

Sketch of what will be “melancholy.”

Debbie Van Dyke, artist and occasional writer