Three Stories, Part Four of Four

The Story I Believe

I believe a different story:
A story in which
you can trust what you
see, hear, smell,
taste, and touch.

You can trust
your own mind and judgment,
your own instincts and feelings,
and the knowledge of your heart.

Life is real in
the story I believe.
This world is real.
Time is real. Change is real.
Separation is real. So is death.
Oneness is real too.

In this story,
your mother conceives
and gives you spirit and
life in her womb when
she takes your father’s seed
into her egg.

In her womb, your mother
forms, feeds, and protects
you until she labors with
pain, fluid, and blood
to birth you.

You take your first breath,
feed and drink,
pee and poop,
cry and coo,
sleep and play,
and learn your
way to adolescence.

The day comes when
you first bleed or spew.
No longer a child, but
still dependent, you
withdraw from those
who raised you and
draw near to your peers.

In the chrysalis of
adolescence you transform.
You labor your way out
and emerge a young adult
with vision and purpose.
Like a young butterfly,
your weak wings strengthen
as you struggle to fly.

And fly you do: away from
home, working, learning,
playing, fucking, exploring,
and making your way
toward your maturity
and your vision too.

You mate and
nurture, protect,
and raise your children
the best you can.
Perhaps you know and
love your grandchildren
and great grandchildren too.

As you age, you decline;
bearing many memories and stories.
More aches and pains.
Less seeing, hearing,
smelling, and tasting.
Less playing. Less fucking.
More resting. Less sleeping.
Shrinking in stature and memory.

As in adolescence, you
withdraw. This time into
the chrysalis of old age.
There you exhale your
last breath, die, and
transform again.

Your spirit disperses
into the wind.
Your body decays
into the earth.
Your soul remains,
your presence felt,
your image seen in
the mind-eyes of those
with whom you are
forever bound by love.

However short or long
you live, you are
by love
forever bound.