Opening the Door by Susan Rees

In a dark space, designated for clothes
and me, a small child sat among shoes
on the floor, in a place where neighbors
couldn’t see. I remember hiding. Or was
I hidden? Did I cry? Or did my tears
stay inside?

I grew older, played with peers. We rode
our bikes on empty fields, bounced on
bumps we said weren’t bumps, climbed
backyard fences, found plaster-coated
boards and buckets inside a neighbor’s
barn. Did anyone ask me where I’d been?
What I’d done?

I pedaled fast, scaled tall fences, breathed
refreshing air inside a musty barn, as I
began to be free. Now I reach back through
time and open the door of a small closet
still filled with dusty shoes, old clothes,
and me.

In a light of future, I see tangled burdens
of those who came before, their sorrows
from yesterday. My understanding grows
into forgiveness. My heart begins to heal
so that I can carry my children’s children
into tomorrow filled only with possibility
and love.