I see you.

Hiding behind your family.
A fiancee,
a daughter.

I see you smile.
Play daddy.
I remember what you did.

I am someone's daughter.
Someone's mother.
I was someone's wife.

And I carried you with me.
A decade plus.
I can see you above me.
Moving.

I can feel your weight.
I can feel my powerlessness.
I can feel my fear.

I cringe,
To see you smile.
To know that you probably forgot.
What you did to me.
What you took from me.

You can pretend.
You can be who you claim to be now.
But I see you.
I have not forgotten.

And it is hard.

We step lightly.
Around mud puddles.
Patches of moss.

We are not graceful.
Our boots clunk.
Sometimes our ankles buckle.

We reach clearings,
Where we can walk freely,
Without hesitation in our steps.

We run,
In those moments,
Until we reach the next quagmire.

And then we step gingerly again.
Seeking our next reprieve from the muck.
Moving toward it with soft purpose.

We cannot halt,
Though we my falter,
Me must move if we wish to leave the muck in our wake.

And we seek God.
We admire the beauty.
We breathe deeply and give thanks.

We take in the greens,
the browns,
the graceful blues.

We take the moment.
Take in the bliss.
The grace.

And then it is onward,
To seek the next moment,
And to search, eternally, for ease.