By Sol Segarra
it’s in the room with us
it sits by my side at dinnertime,
sometimes it gently holds my hair back so it won’t get on my plate.
other times it covers my ears so I won’t listen to your voices,
the shrieking, piercing sounds you make
in futile attempts to muffle its sound.
it sits with me and won’t go away; it demands attention.
it craves acknowledgement and importance.
you turn a blind eye but it stays – it’s persistent, a stain that remains.
it sits silently, heavily, taking up space,
waiting for the day you will see it for what it is.
it sits at the dinner table with us, somber, unnoticed,
tries to make itself small (smaller, smaller, smaller…) but can’t,
it looks at me helplessly because I’m the only one looking back at it –
it’s mine. it belongs to me. it follows me. I have fed it
and nurtured it and consoled it. it looks up to me
its eyes look like mine: tired and bloodshot, dark circles under them.
I give it the acknowledgement it desperately seeks
(I think, sometimes, I am the only adult in the room).
I’m sorry for bringing this issue to the table
someday I think we’ll be able to have a proper conversation,
address the issue adequately, face it head on,
for now it sits and awaits the day you’ll be able to look at it in the eyes
and see it for what it is.
Sol Segarra is a poet from Argentina whose works explore memory, identity, and the emotional landscapes of growing up and letting go.
