The Meadow I Keep

I usually grow curious about authors.

I Google them.

I want to know the room they’re standing in 

when they speak.

That’s how I found him-

by accident, really-

watching an interview

I didn’t mean to stay for.

The longer it went,

The more I felt the tug-

The baiting,

The circling.

But the man being interviewed 

was smarter than the trap.

He knew what was happening.

He didn’t bite.

And that’s when I saw it.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just clearly.

So I left.

For months.

Because clarity doesn’t need endurance tests.

Later, curiosity found me again-

this time through my sister’s name,

the only doorway I know

that doesn’t require knocking. 

I watched.

I waited.

I listened for myself.

I wasn’t there.

Her friend was.

Her leader was.

The story moved on without me.

I didn’t finish.

I choose not to sit

In a room that made my chest go dark.

And here’s what surprised me:

I felt grateful.

Grateful my name wasn’t spoken.

Grateful I didn’t have to be edited,

flattened,

or weighed for relevance.

I can live with her not naming me.

I lived in the house.

I know what happened.

I know our childhood.

So I don’t spend time there anymore.

I don’t follow what he’s doing.

I don’t watch what she’s saying.

This isn’t avoidance.

It’s care.

I value steady ground.

I keep my energy where the air is clean.

I like a meadow 

where I know the character

of what I let wander in.

That matters to me-

because I like sheep.

The wolves

can find another field.