Holey
Papa God, there is a hole in my being. A piece missing.
It doesn’t hurt, no. It’s not like an open wound.
No, the stitches have fallen out, the surface knit together. There is only a scar now, and an hollowness beneath the skin.
Like swiss cheese.
Father, you’ve a swiss cheese daughter.
I’d be a bit ashamed of that, but I think that most of your daughters and sons are of the swiss variety.
Do you know how those holes are made in cheese? Those holes, called “eyes”, are really witnesses to something strange.
Bacteria in the cheese grow and fester and feed and releases carbon dioxide, creating bubbles as time goes on. The more time, the larger the hole. It’s the characteristic identifying mark of this old swiss dairy.
In cheese, this is a preferable thing. But in people, no. We let these little pieces in and they have a life of their own. They go about, living inside, creating holes. So many holes. The longer the time, the larger the space. Eating our being, and creating air.
What have I done, Papa?
I look at the holes and scars and broken bent bits and then look at you.
I’m not even recognizable as your child.
More like a puzzle with missing pieces. Only half an image.
Ah, listen to me Dada, complaining and being angsty.
Bombs are going off in Syria, children are kidnapped in Peru, people starve right here in Phoenix.
Bah, you can leave me be. There are people you actually need your help right now. Love and bless everyone in this whole wide world!
Love you always,
-dautie
