Stealing Pieces

An artist's palette.

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That’s what it feels like. Parts of me have been stolen. Parts of my kids have been stolen. Our lives. Our world.

Not just Bob. Fuck. Yes, he’s the biggest part. The most enormous hole. The gaping void we have missing. But, he’s more than a piece a missing.

I’m talking about the little pieces that make it hard for us to trust. Hard for us to to function in the world. Hard for us to let people in, especially the people who’ve hurt us in the past.

It also makes it hard to let new people in. The damage and hurt caused by people in our lives who’ve lashed out from their own pain, brokenness, or grief. Lashed out at us. Lashed out at me or the kids. The people who’ve spewed their hate on us. The people who’ve judged us.

It makes it hard for us to let the world in. It makes it hard for us to trust the old people who want back in. It makes it hard to let new people in.

And I hate that. I hate that these pieces have been stolen. I want to paint them back. I want all of the colors back that used to be part of us. I want to trust the people I used to trust. I want my kids to feel safe in that world, but they have seen how some people treat us. They’ve read their words. They’ve seen their actions. So, I let them make their own decisions about it all, which means we all have missing pieces now. Fucked as it is.

I have to believe that eventually we will get a new palette of paint, one we can use to fill in different pieces, not the ones that were taken, but new pieces. They’ll redefine us; make us whole again, with all new colors.

Until then, we’re a little jagged. Sorry if we cut your finger. There’s a Band-Aid in the cabinet.