The Unbecoming

coronavirus poetry recovery transformation Apr 04, 2020

Today, my nails tell the tale of the One animal we are - a collective of humans within a surreal chapter of life. Look at them. Look at us. Growing. Changing. Shedding our polish. Unbecoming. Becoming real. Below the hard, shiny shell - showing the world who we are. Transparent and vulnerable. Honest and real. I smile, looking at their innocence and quiet wisdom.


My hands - which have held my child, built mountains, tore down lifetimes, drowned in wine, re-written my story. My Latin hands that speak more words than my mouth when I talk. My hands, which today long to hold other hands - my mother’s, my father’s, my brother’s, my friends who live in different countries. My hands which long to hold my child's face between them - which long to hold the world safe. My hands - which are becoming in their unbecoming.


Yesterday I looked at my nails with sadness, aching for the day I can book a manicure. Today I give way to curiosity and hope. What lays beneath the white, shiny coat? What story will my naked hands tell? What will happen in and through this chapter of the world? What will come up once all humans drop their hard shell and become real? What new stories will we write and mold, cast and build?


I wash the taste of tears with a sip of dark coffee. I smile at my hands with gratitude, for they have taught me a lesson and opened a new door - a new shift. Today. I look at my nails with love and grace - and hope. I can’t wait to see what they-we-us-all become.


Mucho love,


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