cracks in our clay

Dear Terracotta Warrior,

I remember seeing you

but I don’t think you saw me.

It was a cold day in Philadelphia

when my dad dragged me up to

the Franklin Institute and paid

a staggering seventy dollars

for both of us to see you.

I remember staring at your face,

the flat slope of your nose and the

roundness of your cheeks and how

similar they were to mine. The minute

cracks that seemed spiral all over.

Your eyes seemingly focused on

everything and nothing.

I remember standing the dark,

a projection shown upon a model

of a clay warrior. The Life of a

Terracotta Warrior from creation to

destruction. The flames of the kiln

to the painting of your face to

cracking of your armor.

I remember a little boy asking

his dad, “Why are they broken and

no longer colorful?”

I remember his dad saying,

“Because they’re old. When

things get old, they break.”

Time, an enemy to beauty.

I remember leaving Philadelphia,

pulling down the car mirror.

and looking at the emptiness of

my cheeks and the fading color of

my skin and the dark circles under

the dull state of my eyes. Maybe

we are not so different.

Then I remember, I will

never stop trying to cover

up the cracks in my armor or

the imperfections in my face.

Whereas, you clay soldier,

you wear yours proudly

for they are just a testament

of your battles over time.

I'll remember that there is

a beauty in brokenness.