Fingers Covered in Paint

For my brother.

When you were younger,

sandy haired and blue eyed,

with your fingers all covered in paint,

 

I remember your PlayStation:

cross, triangle, circle and square,

with lip biting concentration.

 

Mickey mouse plasters,

Chlorine stained hair,

fish and chips on a Friday.

 

Lined up smarties,

In colour coded rainbows,

Our sunshine youth became a haze.

 

Early frequencies were misunderstandings,

Subsiding ever towards,

the intolerably full, defining, silence.

 

All the words that should be said,

that should be screamed,

remain dormant, bursting under our skin.

 

Empty glasses of wine,

this house is not a home.

my bones ached.

 

Words left unsaid,

Sentences left unfinished:

Absently present.

 

The chaos may have led me,

To the other side of the world,  

but sometimes destruction is highest form of liberation.

 

And although it may seem,

that the branches of our family tree,

have become weakened and worn;

 

These are the bonds that keep us together.

These branches can be stronger than it appears,

And it takes a storm to truly hold it to the test.

 

Surviving the hurricane is the first half,

Finding your way is the rest,

This was never an easy task.

 

Eventually we will come to arrive,

At the place where we plant our own roots,

to grow our own family tree.

 

This wood is our foundation,

Although weakened and weathered,

From the force of the storm,

 

We are the survivors:

The proof that you and I,

Are made of the strongest timber.

 

Weather worn,

Storm enduring,

Unapologetically alive.

 

We plant our own roots,

We build our own wood,

For our own family trees.

 

The sunshine youth,

Will melt the terrible mental haze.

We can create our own warmth.

 

So, to you my blonde haired,

Blue eyed,

Brother:

 

Find your wood,

Build your roots,

Create your sunshine,

 

And your tree will grow.

It will be forever standing.

With your fingers still covered in paint.