Smell the flowers, blow out the candles.

My body

walks in familiar memories of survival.

Clenched teeth.

Chewed cuticles.

Hair twisted tight.

Eyes on a swivel.

Counting exits.

Learning every detail the moment I walk in.

Eyes glazed

to shifting lights

and noise.

And then

suddenly

I realize

I am back in the memories that made me this way.

In those moments

I close my eyes.

Smell the flowers.

Blow out the candles.

I remind myself

it’s in the past.

No longer relevant.

But how can I convince myself it isn’t

when my body remembers

before I do?

So instead

I learn.

Slowly.

That it IS still relevant.

Not something that controls me anymore.

But a lesson

picked up along the way.

A pause.

A reminder.

Like proof

of everything I have learned.

The power I have

to take control

of my own life.

But sometimes

just sometimes

when life becomes too fast,

too much

my jaw tightens again.

And my cuticles remember

what comes next.

So I remember.

To take those moments

for myself.

To smell the flowers.

To blow out the candles.

To soak in the moments

that were made

for me.

Because I am safe now.

And my kids’ laughter

is the sound

that unclenches my jaw

as I blow out

the candles.