I have decided
I love smudges in my journal.
Imperfections of the moment,
They used to aggravate
my carefully hidden OCD inclinations.
I used to hate the way they marred
memories, quotes, treasures.
Ugly scars distracting
from the aesthetic I had so carefully planned.
But the grease stain
From curious fingers just turned three years old,
The smudged ink, barely penned,
Painted across the page
In the haste to leave on time,
The touch of curry in the corner
Remnant of multitasking gone awry,
The five-year-old’s inked masterpiece on the last page
Now hold memories.
Mischievous smiles, nervous laughter,
Quickly flared anger, more quickly still extinguished
By the apologetic eyes of little brothers
Speak to me from the smudges.
Marring perfection, gently reminding
That nature is not perfection.
That life is simply the messy bits
The smudges, strung together
Sewn into and onto our beautiful reality.
They are scars.
Scars holding stories.
And now I find myself wondering
How I can create more.
by Rachel Swenson.
Rachel lives and serves in Vryheid, South Africa, where she lives with her host family, including her host brothers.