There are moments where trauma doesn't begin or end. It just layers on the veins embedded in our rocks, our traumas. Gravel is the uncomfortable pebbling the path. Veining if is faint. Nonetheless, the trauma is showing.
Are we the rocks? Therapists tell us that trauma happens to us. It changes our brains. What if we didn't know, bc trauma whipped our ancestors so badly, it showed up 4 generations down the line. What do we feel like? Are chips? Are we tumbled smooth? Are we light catchers? Which parts of sparkle?
What if you got your spark from trauma? Poverty dictates. It creates stories that socialize around lack. Basic needs are a party. Funerals are fish fries. Building fund is a few hands of poker. Prom was baking pies for the community. Lack forces you to see the world for what it gives not how you work with it. It demands you learn early and young to play with rocks.
My middle daughter has always carried around rocks. I've never grasped her fascination. Hidden in patches of grass or barely missing from the driveway, she collected them. Currently, she has around 11 tucked into a pouch. They go with her everywhere. She saw things in those rocks that others take for granted.
I grew up on a gravel drive. When my mother bought her first home, it didn't have gravel. Over time, the compacted red clay gave way under Buicks and Chevys. At my grandmother's house, the putrid green walnut hull hugged the gravel every fall. My grandmother drove over them. I'd find the nuts. Little did I know, I was allergic. I could walk on rocks.
I couldn't undo the trauma. I'd seen the affects. I didn't know. Words can't speak in silence. They can fill up intentional emptiness. All the rocks in the world aren't as big as Cancer.
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