We are each one—
Just one—
Drop in a stream,
Flowing, flowing,
Over rocks and algae
Until we feed into
The mighty ocean
Made of millions—
Billions—
Infinite—
Drops of water;
Who would miss just one?
But if one drop evaporates
And then another
And another
Soon there would be no stream
But a trickle
No ocean
But a pond
Shrinking
Shrinking
Shrinking
Into a puddle and then—
No more
About the Creator
Stephanie Hoogstad
With a BA in English and MSc in Creative Writing, writing is my life. I have edited and ghost written for years with some published stories and poems of my own.
Learn more about me: thewritersscrapbin.com
Support my writing: Patreon
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Comments (7)
Stunning! Such a powerful message on a number of levels, gorgeous imagery, and just enrapturing from the first lines! 🩷🩷🩷
That is so poignant, and so true. Well said.
I love this Stephanie. The imagery of it and the way it has a metaphorical feeling to it, like that feeling when you've given so much of yourself that you have no more left... just like an evaporated puddle!
well written poem, soo much to relate👌
This smis gorgeous - the feeling of human insignificance is universal, but so is the collective human experience!
Yes, small things bring about big impact when it accumulates. Loved your poem!
Very nice! I really like this! ☺️👍