The Negotiation of Brokenness

The negotiation of brokenness.
How does it go? How does it begin? What does it look like?
It's not the seamless gluing together of shards of ceramic plates -
It's not the side-stepping of glass smashed across the street.
It's not these bruises, or these cuts, or the damaged branches
of the dead tree accosted with that baseball bat.
It's not the knot in the chest that took so long to go away.
These are merely the signs of brokenness.
The symptoms of the shattering.
No, the negotiation lies in the subtle thank yous,
the quiet forgiveness, the cautious painful choice of words
to carefully tread on the thin ice that has finally
blanketed the tempestuous seas of emotion that rocked
so precariously only moments before.
It's the not-falling through the ice, not breaking that layer
of glass that separates us from the turmoil of where we were.
It's acknowledging that the brokenness happened.
It's cleaning up the mess, not with a weapon, but with words
and a soft-bristled broom, keeping clear the window beneath you.
Knowing where you were, but seeing where you're going, moving forward.
It's gingerly carrying that tiny bundle of love
across that quiet, frozen chasm,
dancing with a muted choreography that you hope
will turn into something bigger than yourself
when the glass hardens beneath you
and you are sturdy once more,
and more yourself, with all the cracks and crevices
beneath your feet and across your body
now merely proving that you survived the drowning.