or, Sometimes I Need to Remember

When I held them in the infinite
dark of my body,
dreams and expectations and sacred
family traditions filled
every thought, every plan. 

And then, when every dream and plan
fell through my fingers and broke
into pieces just large enough to dare
mending, I gave up trying –
not because they were broke, but because I
was too frustrated to force pieces
to fit where they don’t belong. 

So, I reshaped and reframed, sanded rough 
corners, and removed what didn’t work for us.
I gave up trying to be normal and dreamed
new dreams and planned new plans,
fit us all back together and sealed
the cracks with world-shattering smiles
and happy, flappy hands. 

I am not forged in fire, or purified
like some precious metal. I was made
in specialized pediatric clinics
and federal agencies and through stacks
of paperwork. I cut my teeth
in IEP meetings and doctors’ offices,
and then sharpened those teeth 
on calls with insurance agents. 

I got what they needed. 
Every single time. 
I would not

bet against me.