Snow in the Evening

I am, hot chocolate in hand,
judging the barista who made it for her high
pitched
winey
voice.
I can feel my throat tighten up when
she talks
how constricted my own
vocal chords would have to be
to reach the height of her lilting
speech.
A part of me wants to liberate that part of her,
saying,
you can get my attention with out
the girlish squeal
without the definite screech of girlhood, which
she is far past.

Maybe it is how her mother spoke. Her
grandmother before that. Maybe they
both died before she
grew and her voice is
everything they left behind.
How much of me is struggling to hang on
to my mother,
her anxiety
her mood swings
her lumbering humor which endears far before it alienates.

Who am I to judge when I
too hold on to family
traits like I
would have my childhood blanket?
My sister's pride
my father's wandering spirit
and the way he can vanish
in a moment.
Their faults and attributes fall on my heart and
mound up like snow on boulders
I am an amalgamation of them,
and they,
me.

Who are we but a
continuation of each other?
Surround yourself with
people who rain down joy and love
because they will
pile on top of those wounds left
years ago and
heal
heal
heal
you and allow you to spin brightly into the world.