Brush fire

I am on fire

But not the empowering kind

Not the athletic kind

Not the sprinter burning toward a finish line, hands ready to hold up the sky in victory.

The kind where you stand outside a house beyond saving and watch it burn, just starting to feel the loss.

I am on fire, but I am not fire.

I am yellow earth, grass.

The shape of each flame is a blade of grass disappearing, a word I can’t hold in my mind long enough to make a sentence.

The shape of each flame never holds long enough to become poem.

I need stories, narrative, but only feel anger, pain, loss when I try to access them and am interrupted again and again.

These two young children can be my only story now, the only story I lose myself in, the only story I tell.

I am on fire. My daughter is the fire, loss and victory. My son is the sun, bright but burning.

My husband keeps planting seeds hoping we’ll get to the other side.

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About Kaitlin

I am primarily a stay at home mom. I also have a Phd in Eglish. Everyday I’m learning about myself, my family, and my community. I write about parenting, childhood, education, autism, homeschooling, politics, anti-racism, and feminism. Critiquing coercive and damaging cultural norms like misogyny, racism, sexism, capitalist exploitation, ableism, and childism helps me seek out a life of peace, justice, and empathy.
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