There are chips in the plaster.
Paint has worn off the wainscotting and chair rails.
The shellac on the door is long worn off
and the wood is dry.
History, unrestored.
Raw.

It’s not a pretty thing, raw.
We spend a lot of time and effort in restoration.
We strip off the old paint.
We strip off the rough edges.
We patch and paint. We desire
beauty over the rough history before the work.
Scars, we have decided, are less
beautiful than the perfect coat of paint.
There is work in it. Dedication. Persistence.
Such is desire.

I am a recorder of the before.
A taker of pictures.
A reciter of bareness and the broken,
a battered bard of the ugly
truth of then and now.

There is, I have learned, beauty in the broken.
There is promise.
I have suffered my own restorations,
and know beauty is not a thing that lasts.
There is work in it.
Hard work.
Bones to be mended.
before the beauty is applied.
Layer up layer of work,

And the journey must be honored,
captured,
remembered
if only to know
how far you have come.
And how far you have yet to go.

About this poem

It is good to remember our past, if only to honor the journey. It is good to remember our struggle now and remember that where ever we are, restoration is possible.

Been there. Done that. My guess is I will do it again. Life’s like that.

Have a beautiful Sunday.

Tom