Where’s My Cynefin?

No place where I feel entirely safe have I been able to find. Memories. Not since I don’t sit down in my backyard looking at the sky in the most vulnerable state of mind where I can allow anything to make me tear up. The color of the horizon, the sound of a knock on the door from no stranger but my father. Whenever he comes home it’s my cynefin. Whenever he hugs me and tells me he loves me is my cynefin. Whenever I hear the muffled music inside the house it’s my cynefin. Waiting for the sunset to come forth in my home. What if neither ever shows up again? I wonder. No sense of adrenaline any longer. No father showing up. The future handed to your hands; but not wanting to take it. It hurts. The pain. I’m broken. I still am trying to find something that I can fix myself with. When I learn what that is, I’ll heal. Only when I can turn to the past...that will be my cynefin.

-Krissia Chavez