I’m up way past my bedtime
rushing like good blood pressure.
The house is empty, yet the sound of me echoes in the ears of loved ones
no matter where they lay their heads.
I understand. It’s hard to tell if blood is spilling or boiling, or pumping,
I can trust myself tonight.
Therefore, I have the authority to flamboyantly waltz around my home,
A place so alive it feels like a friend,
And spend an evening living without wondering who or what I’m killing.
I’m headed to the heart of the Lion
Specifically, his wardrobe.
and the doctor is not in.
I rummage with delicacy and delight,
I shall wear whichever torn up tee-shirt I desire,
It is an honor to don the fluffy robes of a king.
I feel small in the best way,
excited to see how much they’ll grow in one year.
My mother let me wear her clogs back when I had the smallest of feet.
The space between my toes and the wood only stood to remind me that at any moment those shoes could come off,
if they didn’t, they’d threaten to for the duration.
Every step required grip,
I kept those clogs on my feet with all the bones and toes I had.
to kick off that hollowness.
Let the clogs fall where they may.
Heavy is the head who wears the crown of Tie inspector,
and I take my job seriously.
I meticulously examine each one,
naturally fragrant with childhood,
Memories of young, chaotic mornings woven into silk.
Silky threads made of a fond routine I always found beautiful and complicated.
The Lion looped the silk swiftly and seamlessly and frequently
he didn’t have time to notice the miracle in the minutia.
30 years on I count their silky crests like a four star General.
I need to make sure everyone is still here,
I spend the remainder of the ritual picking through the Lion’s wardrobe,
mining for colorful cashmere sweaters.
I tried them on in a cautious frenzy,
with zero intent to return them.
The layer cake of trial and error reminded me of rainy middle school days.
When it rained the Lion roared and ordered his cubs to put on a sweater,
a jacket, boots, gloves, and a cowboy hat.
But what about our hair, Dad?
He braided our manes flawlessly under those cowboy hats
with tact and finesse we could’ve sworn we were Cleopatra, or Joan of Arc.
We were too small for our armor, sure,
But we knew we’d grow into it.
In those moments, I didn’t drown in the emptiness of the clogs,
(Not unless I put them on).
The Doctor’s armor is heavy,
The heaviness inspired me
to carry the weight of battle
To wield weapons to protect,
all swords are double edged,
and enemy fire and friendly fire are distinguished
only by which side of the frontline you’re on,
and what you’re fighting for.
The heart of the Lion was big enough for 10 men..
How did he become so vast?
The lion’s daughter was almost too busy growing herself
to contemplate the Lion as a man.
What did the Lion have to do in order to become?
Who did he have to fight to evolve?
Which kingdom did he defeat
to claim such vast internal territory?
What did he have to survive to keep it?
Vastness of the soul comes at a cost.
Does he feel that way, too?
Heavy is the head that wears the scrub cap,
that slice and sew strangers just as beautifully as they braid their baby girls’ hair,
and lay out multivitamins like loose diamonds.
Whatever it took to get here was worth it.
The unwitnessed waltz of the wild child is sacred when performed correctly.
It must poignantly convey the whimsy of childhood
and punctuate one’s distance from it.
It should be so comforting that you make room to be confounded—
this is a delicacy in my culture.
The discomfort is just as delicious as its saccharine counterpart.
Tonight, I revisit the inkling I intuited while wrapped in rain gear—
There is so much more to the Lion than I will ever know.
The slippers are still too big!
Will I ever know what it feels like to fit?
Let alone, fit into these slippers?
To know exactly how they feel?
The answer is of course not, And the Lion wouldn’t have it any other way.
If I am to become a Lion, I have to survive like one.
I have to fight for my life especially when I don’t want to.
I have to make room for blissful moments only found in the minutia
or else, let my soul starve.
If I don’t learn to hunt and gather my dreams
I won’t know what it takes to keep them,
I won’t know how to make the room necessary
to be a person I’m proud of,
to remain a person I can trust with my life.
Tonight, I do not have the answers.
Wouldn’t I like to know, Dad!
It would be ungodly of me to ask you.
Just so we can talk a little longer.
God Bless the Lion man and the parts of his journey I will never know.
