It is a small thing,
4 strings of beads that frame the passage
to our backyard curtain-style.
Break them
and each wooden turquoise bead has no bearing on anything;
each plastic yellow one was simply made in Taiwan.
But whole, there is significance,
and significance inside of that.
My first house out of home
I remember stringing them late at night.
Freedom was an overused word
and it was mine
and it was quiet
and good.
I hung them on the wall at the head of my bed
reaching from ceiling to pillow
and when I laid beneath a man
I could look up and remember
that I owned the moment
that it was mine
and it was free
and it was good.
Now these 4 strings of beads
lay bare my history and move beyond:
to screaming children, to grass
and garden, to the limitless sky.