The Late Bloomer

Poetry | By Bahati Jacinta, Poet / Nutritionist | 01 December 2015

We all go through the motions of life differently. Same stages but it seems we all have our timing individually programmed for us, somehow. It may happen too soon or take forever, or it may just be a perception, after all. The important thing is that everyone finally gets their chance…

She sits back and sinks deep into the cushion that’s her life,
Staring and watching as they burst forth and out;
Moving and swaying in the breezes and currents of life,
Admired by eyes and praised by lips.
She watches as they grow and blossom,
Sometimes to meet their untimely death as they are
Plucked off and left to wither in the storms and weathers of this life.
Yet some blossom and bloom, oh how they bloom!

There is no escaping the canvass that’s her mind
There’s a fire that burns and smokes out the thoughts therein hidden,
Creating a maze over space,
Blurring her gaze. Yet she sees,
A road mapped out, expectations staring back from all directions.
Yet there’s a faint glow inside that begs to be kindled,
A dream that never got the chance to live,
And a hope that only had a glance at life yet daily stares into the endless pits of sacrificial oblivion.

What’s the use of comparing fates and chances,
Luck and the different journeys travelled?
But wait, what if it had been different,
What if she’d had what they had?
What if she’d been born where they had,
Had the opportunities they had,
What if she had been born with all the privileges they had,
Or born in total lack and want,
Born in the definitions of lack itself?
What if she’d been molded and sculptured the same way and …..
What if turns into a game of playing victim and blaming life.
It becomes a swamp in which she sinks deeper
With each struggle for relevance and comparison,
And for what?
It becomes a game, a self-destructing game.

A step back and a glance around and she’s there,
Right there, staring right back at her, unblinking.
She sees her, determined to be
All that can possibly be born of it,
Of the road that’s mapped out before her.
It all seems so much less than she’s capable of having, of wanting.
Because she wants it all, goes out to have it all.

She sees one, whose insides are stirring at some other revelation,
A passion raging forth and bubbling to the surface,
A hunger, an uncertainty.
And she sees hesitation and determination in equal measure,
Desire and reservation
A journey that rises and almost sets with the sun,
Yet is renewed with each day….
Yet it’s not as much who is as who isn’t,
What is and isn’t as what should be, could be, needs to be.
Yet it is,
A cocktail
Of who, what, why, when, should, could and needs,
To be, to become, play by the rules.
To make happen, to please and be pleased,
To live, to thrive,
Rather than just buzz through life.

And so the late bloomer stirs and awakens,
Throws back the covers and finally moves.
Time. It has finally come,
Probably happening just as it was meant to, after all.
It’s her time to bloom….

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