Posted on August 12, 2026 by Jenn Zatopek

YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND

I grew up on the dusty plains of North Texas, scribbling poems into plaid journals, singing in choirs, swinging upwards into blue skies on playgrounds–my heart a sweet songbird looking for wings while my mother’s house was one of air and fire for my joy, my ecstasy at living. 

You have to understand the weight of sorrow I was gifted, how recent grief bent me to the floor where tears became bricks and earth my mortar. Even when pain shrouds me, connection is the rickety bridge I cross between the canyons of loneliness and the solace of healing. How this moment becomes my sanctuary–

Our hike by the waterfront, the Colorado River smelly with scum, thirsty elm trees blowing in winds, blasts of dance music and the harsh cries of grackles. Summer heat alchemizes sadness while I walk with wings unfurling, taking my place right where I am, changed into something else. What? I don’t know. Does it matter? 

I am the ground on which we walk the city, the soft grasses which cushion the birds and unhoused who rest in shade, the emptiness of sky above which holds everything, everything in love.

Image / Tomek Baginski on Unsplash