How much brokenness is just enough to let the hurt go and heal?
I often find myself asking this when an object that my grandmother touched is changed, broken, or lost.
Today, it is not my grandmother, her belongings or her memories that are changed, broken, or lost. The only variable in this equation of brokenness is my own pain. Nurturing sorrow, non-beauty, and need I have kept broken enough to live, yet not be alive.
Today I sit with my skeleton woman, the equation of my wholeness equal to the sum of my brokenness and complicity to remain there. Visible through the mitote mess of my brain, I know not yet what must die, but her haunting hollow beauty begs a question I must lose myself to find.