Hugs

It’s been awhile since anyone has hugged me. I smile, they smile, and I wrap my arms around them. It’s superficial, friendly, and something even close enemies can safely participate in. But that’s only something that soothes the itch of the surface.

It’s been so long since someone actually drew me close, put their body against mine and said, “I love you.” It doesn’t have to be a significant other, just a person—someone—anyone to hold me. My mother, my father, a friend. I am starved of essential nutrition. Like an evanescent flower without water, I feel as though I am withering. Clouds that are dark and evil congregate over my home—my very life. Rain is falling like tears all around me but never hitting my open wrists turned to Heaven.

Emptiness. It’s inside of me. I feel a void and I can’t tell if I’m falling or flying.

I want to orient myself. Please help me.

Somewhere out there, someone is listening. In those moments when I feel dead and I’m seconds away from my last breath, faithful arms always catch me. Like the finale of a grand Opera or Shakespearean masterpiece, the final act ends with my rediscovery of love. That human contact—I may be lacking it, but unlike my Daily Bread, it’s a luxury I don’t need, nonetheless deserve.

Stained Glass

Her filthy fingerprints sully handcrafted masterpiece. Luminescent colors of ruby, gold, and azure that once reflected brilliant light have become dingy and gray. Tears streak her cheeks, a nightly affair.

She lifts her eyes which are red and puffy from crying. The picture of her is misshapen and ugly. The halo over her head is tilted to the side and falling off. Wings that used to lift her high are marred with her suffering. Red stains the soft white and feathers scatter like her innocence; lost to the wind.

She lifts her fingers to her eyes, wiping away fresh tears. A delicate voice, her voice, says, "I'm broken."

Once more, she touches the stained glass. The hidden glow lies under layers of filth that she feels too abashed to wash. Why would anyone care to wash an old window when a new one could be purchased? The notion threatens to swallow her whole.

As she chokes on her tears she does not see the nimble hands of the craftsman who intervenes. Swift fingers that patch the bleeding heart and cut the pain with scissors. Feathers and wings are lifted high, reshaped, and reformed. Their old figure is forgotten. Something NEW is declared.

Rain. It washes the glass clean. The slate is fresh, new, and smells of spring flowers. The glass blooms in the light and reflects a dance of colors against the cold stone. She can lift her eyes and see a Glory that polishes her clean and marbled and white.

A word falls from her rosen lips. That word is love.

Five and Fighting

He looked into my eyes and said, “Your daughter is going to die.”  The world just fell away.

What man can truly hear those words and not be guilty of the living heart in his chest?  What man can hear those words and say that he is sane?  That child—that little thing that is half of who you are—is threatened by a man in a black cloak.

She didn’t take the candy.  She didn’t pet the puppy.  Something inside of her got sick and forgot to die, instead growing and growing until it developed into a mass on her brain, causing her pain that no one who has lived five years should experience.

This wasn’t her fault.  Not at all.  Do you think she would have chosen to seize on the floor at school, or weakness so great she couldn’t lift her hand?  Did she want her parents to hold the trash can for her as she vomited into it or hold her down when the doctors had to take what she calls a “batillion” shots?  Not at all.

This is my fault.  Mine.  This invader—this germ of cancer came from me or her mother.  What five year old develops a growth on their tender brain without prerequisites?

My apologies will do nothing for her.  She wouldn’t even understand.  She still thinks God sent her to earth on a little cloud that deposited her on our doorstep.  She would never be able to even grasp the meaning of Mendel's chromosomes and inheritance.

I pose the question, would it have been better if she hadn’t been born?

She wouldn’t have had to feel the poison running through her veins, or seen the hair on her floor that she brushed out.  There would be no scars on scalp or tears in her eyes as other children call her baldy.

She’s five and fighting.  But it sounds like the fight is over.  I realize, as I’m holding her and she asks, “Daddy, why are you crying?” that I’m just not ready to Heaven have her.

And The Children Dance

She wants to see it painted in red.  All of her grieving, sorrow, and pain.  She wishes that all the mistakes she had made didn’t threaten to devour her with their pointed teeth.  All the lies she told are looming like shadows that make her days bleak and her nights lonely.  Smiles and laughter are mere illusions in her evanescence. 

            Tears are so bountiful you could fill the seven seas and then some.  No hand holds her nor do any arms take claim to her lovely self.  Despair is the flavor on her lips.  Blackness and ash cover her face as thick as her eyeliner and make-up.  She’s there, on the floor, painting it red with anguish and despondency. 

            With the knife she traces neat lines that criss-cross over silver scars on her wrists.  The tears of blood flow down her arm, drip on her jeans and across her shirt.  A knife as sharp as her memories may pierce her skin, but the real and painful truth cuts deeper than all.

            She tears at whatever she can find.  Her clothes, her hair, her skin.  She screams for the end to come, for someone to come and take her away from this horrible place.  She wonders why the lightning hasn’t struck or the building fallen in on top of her to end the tears and mad wishes with her bitter end.  She doesn’t hear any voice, nor feel hands lifting her high.  The only sound in her ears is that of the clock, counting her seconds; adding value to her pain.  Warm hands don’t hold her, but the temperature seems to drop as the lies and shadows begin to close in.

            Pretty blue eyes begin to dull to a lucid color as the blood on the floor congeals and turns dark.  She closes her eyes to try and stop the vertigo.  Her breathing becomes soft, despite the rabbit-pace of her heart.  Fear is hidden beneath her pale composure.  She wants this rabid pain to flee from her heart and find a hole to die in.  Perhaps she could die instead.

She wants to rid herself of this burden that is splitting her bones and tearing her muscles.  She wants the loneliness, the lies, and the lapses of the past to be burned from her record and never found again. 

            But, not a man on the earth has love enough to heal her.  From the holes in her smoking heart, she knows this.  All the earthly love of men will bring is blood on the walls and scars on the wrist. 

            She raises her hands and offers her hemorrhaging wrists.  It’s barely audible, like final breath of a dove.  She says, “Take it away.”

            Hands.  On her face, touching her lips and brushing strands of hair from her blue eyes.  They check her pulse and hold tight as she tries to pull away.  Bandages white as Christmas snow clothe her cuts.  Brash red marks seep into the gauze.  She whimpers as they tighten the bandages and lift her high to set her on a pedestal.

            And then she’s in His arms.  He’s holding her tightly as she is too weak to stand on her own.  Her eyes blur and cross as she tries to orient herself, but dizziness conquers her.  He sweeps her away in a one, two, three, one two, three that aligns with the soft melody he sings.  Together, they step, step, step across a marbled floor and joy gallops like a mustang with freedom riding high on its back.  Never has she flown as high as when He lifts her so high she can almost touch the clouds.  He raises her higher, higher, and higher until her fingers disappear into the cumulus.

            It’s cast into oblivion. Her bones can heal, her muscles may stitch together.  Love has stolen away her grief.  As she comes back to his arms, he holds her close and kisses her forehead before he takes her hands to shuffle her across the dance floor.

            A harmony of mutters and ticks, beeps, and counts to umpteenth numbers provides a background that is all but lost in the chorus of the dance.

            Her tears.  They vanish with the red cuts on her arms.  He twirls her around once, twice, thrice.  She spins into His arms and steps with him left and then right.  He pulls her close and whispers, “You belong to me.”

            She opens her eyes and sees the plain white of a hospital room.  She looks to her hands made stubby by bandages.  Inside, her heart smiles wide until she feels it might pop.   The smile spreads to her lips and she laughs with deep and genuine passion.  

Worth Your Nickels and Dimes

Don’t leave me alone.  It’s what we say when our mother’s turn off the nightlight for the first time.  Again, those words fall freely from out lips when our friends urge us to talk to that cute boy across the room.  Yet, when they are most relevant is when you feel that everything inside of you will wither and die when the person you gave everything to decides to walk away and keep your heart as a souvenir.  Sleep on it, they say, but you can’t so you jack yourself up on caffeine and stay in public places so you won’t drown yourself in tears.  Well, that’s what I do.

For three years my hand belonged in his.  His arms were my circle of protection.  Love was the flavor of our kisses.  Something came to life in his eyes when he saw me.  I felt the earth move under me when I remembered the flowers he’d brought or the letters he’d written.  It ran deeper than any pen on paper or word spoken to the wind.  A warm look or a soft smile was all it took for us to communicate in reticent whispers. 

I didn’t expect him to take a knife and stab the living heart out of our relationship.  Words like “there was always something wrong,” and “we haven’t been happy in a long time,” and, my favorite, “I don’t deserve you,” peppered his lame excuse of an “easy” let down.  It wasn’t easy to sit and listen to him describe how much I needed someone else because he was not good enough.  It was just the opposite.

My polished nails tap the glass tabletop.  Hard.  Other patrons give me sidelong looks, disapproving of whatever private thoughts are driving me to forget my manners.  I am a little ashamed of myself, but with all of this dirty laundry tumbling through my head I can’t help but feel a little separated from reality.

I take a sip from my paper cup, hoping it will drown all of my decrepit thoughts.  Only after I’ve swallowed do I realize that I’ve forgotten to put sugar in the brew.  I gag and stand to fetch some sugar and creamer to take away the edge of my black coffee.  As I approach the counter, the teen boy smiles politely as he flips through a Sports Illustrated magazine.  He doesn’t know it but I can see his swimsuit edition peeking out from behind a bucket of hot chocolate mix.  Without a word, I return his friendly smile and, having doctored my coffee, return to my little corner to mourn.

I’m about to launch myself into a mental harangue about my misfortunes when the bell on the door jingles like Christmas.  Who else but my worst nightmare would walk in?

He’s just as I remember.  Tall, handsome, and with the personality that could sell used cars.  He’s wearing a pressed shirt of robin’s egg blue.  The strings in my heart tighten painfully as I note that it compliments his chocolate eyes and dark hair.  His smile is one of confidence and simple pleasures.  I remember this smile used to brighten his face just before he would kiss me.  He is still my man on a white horse.  There is only one thing wrong.

Wrapped around his arm is a blond woman with cute legs and a million dollar smile.  She is laughing, no doubt, at one of his jokes.  He has a great sense of humor.  I want to lash out at her—to blame her for the betrayal that was thrust upon me by the man who holds her hand and tickles her under the chin.  I don’t want to pin it on the man whose admiration I still desire.  So, my comprehension of the situation is slow.

This woman is not some sultry vixen who lured my boyfriend away from a soft and endearing relationship full of love and comfort.  In fact, she is probably just as victimized as I am.  Does she know that less than a day ago I was the one on this man’s arm?  Was she with him then?  If she was, did she know?

I stand.  I don’t know if he realizes I’m here yet, but he will.  I’m not really thinking, but what do you expect of a person who hasn’t slept in at least 36 hours?  My mind is no longer thinking of him, but the woman he is with.  As he begins to order, I tap her on the shoulder.  Surprised but not rudely, she turn to me.

“Yes…?”  She asks.

I put my hands on her shoulders.  I hear nickels and dimes hit the floor as he undoubtedly recognizes me.  He stutters as he tries to stop me.

I say nothing but the honest truth to this woman. “You deserve better than him.”

Chasing Clouds

Every cloud has its silver lining, whether it’s stormy and gray or puffed like a marshmallow.  Every person has a dream that they wish for, be it on pennies in a pond or stars in the sky.  Every step builds on another, creating a spiral of life’s stepping stones.  This is our existence.  Trials and tribulations that etch us from nondescript stone to the masterpieces that our loved ones proudly proclaim.

Some things that may seem like the end of reality are only the beginning of a new one.  Maybe you were drifting into oblivion.  Perhaps you didn’t want to cast that penny or climb that stair.  Endings force you to find beginnings.

It may hurt.  A lot.  It may seem as though all the cuts and pain and blood in the world cannot begin to describe the wounds of your soul.  You may feel detached and just ready to tie a balloon to your wrist drift away from reality into those stormy clouds.  This just means you fail to see the sparkles of silver they cast on the horizon.  Never fear, they are never far.

Perhaps you are in pain.  Maybe instead of saying “sorry” next time someone has had their heart gouged out of their chest you will wrap your arms around them and say the same thing, but with empathy.  Perhaps this pain is only a page in your story that you must study and learn from rather than skim to avoid gruesome details.

Don’t let the fire of hurting inside consume you.  Let those flames fizzle and burn away.  Take the ashes and use them to cultivate something new.  Use the stormy clouds to water the budding future and the fluffy whites to shade the sprout when things look bleak.

Find that place, find that healing, find that silver lining in the clouds and chase them until you can fly Home together.