While the Thread Remains in Our Hands - Poems #919146

Winter does not disappear; spring arrives.
Fate does not disappear; the possibility of choosing appears.
The wound does not disappear; it simply stops ruling us.

I have never known exactly
when a story begins.
Perhaps it is not when a character appears,
nor when a first sentence
finds its place.
Perhaps it begins much earlier.
In a question
that refuses to disappear.
In something we carry inside us
for years
without yet knowing
what to call it.
I write because there are questions
that refuse to remain still.
Questions about what we inherit,
about the names
others give us,
about the wounds
that reach us
before we even know
how to defend ourselves against them.
And, above all,
about that small space
between what has been given to us
and what we choose
to do with it.
That is the place
that interests me.
The moment when a person realizes
that perhaps they cannot change
the thread they were given at birth,
but they can still decide
how to hold it.