I am a musketeer. I am of four not three. I bear no rifle or sword but I stand in unity all the same. My comrades are three like me. We are mostly sure we are right. We fight with a voracious tenacity to be seen. To be heard. To be relevant. Our partners know that there is no room between us in this thing of ours. No space to wedge themselves in. Room enough to be part of our clan but still maybe a bit outside. Those who stay have made their peace with this. Many have tried and failed. No words shared can be unheard. There is an understanding that all things said, no matter how hard to hear, are out of love. A deep seeded need to make sure we all know that we have each other and in that can not ever be alone. Though a darkness can grip us all in our own way, we need only look up and see the light. It comes in a set of varying brownish eyes. Ones that nearly disappear when coupled with a smile made of our father’s full lips.
My Brew, my first friend. My longest love. In each other we learned the importance of solidarity. In my bank of memories you are ever present.
My Bird, the first baby I ever held. My first chance at mothering. My guinea pig in haircuts and carpools. She listens like no body’s business. In her the guaranteed vault of secrets.
My Buddy, the baby. The pleaser. The sweet smiled. Only now am I learning who you really are. Complex and deep and brave.
All of you have my heart. Have my back.
I am a musketeer of four.
I have a pack.
I can only lay claim to who I am if I pay homage to this thing of ours. So here it is. You loud laughers. You big heart havers. You, so intolerant of injustice. You are mine. And I am wholly yours.