August 14, 2006

Ladies and gentlemen, angels and demons, “peanut-crunching crowds,” a fair-haired matron slouches against a wall frantically scrolling through the phonebook in her cell, searching, wide-eyed, for one number.  She needs only one number, only one voice to let her crumble, and not subject her to the requisite of discussing the situation.  She needs only one voice who will hold together her pieces until she regains her grip, and not ploy her with makeshift promises of safety and desire.  She needs only one voice who will understand the primordial need to purge the bile of fear and doubt and hatred, and not recoil from her torture like the candle-singed wing of a lunar moth.  There isn’t one, one number, one voice.  Our matron slides to the floor and drops her eyes to her knees, pressing tightly fighting the torrent of tears threatening to drown her last wanted breath.  Her lips part with silent pleas to Her or to Him, “Release me of this obligation.”  If only she had one voice…

Baptism and Last Rites

 Baptism and Last Rites performed within the same hour of my first breath.  From the moment the cold sterile air pinked my skin, I have struggled.  I fought and survived.  Later when hangers and leashes and brass buckles provided discipline, I fought and I survived.  Later when bedrooms were dark and secrets were born, I fought and I survived.  Even later, when vows were made and the view was pleasant, I fought.  I struggled the demons that threatened my children.  I struggled to keep the circus smile, to maintain the friable façade of average family. 

Then it was shattered.

And I broke. 

Now I struggle and I am alone.  Now I struggle and nowhere is a warm touch that reminds me of what it is like to feel hopeful.  Now I pass through the days like July’s humidity, slow, heavy.  And there are moments, moments as the hours surround me that I wish I could stop.  I wish I could stop being.  I wish my fight would end and the last whisper of breath would brush my lips.  Then I could stop. 

And then, then I would read and write and dream and love.

And then, then I would deify the sun, the moon, the echo of silence.  I would laugh.  I would smile.  I would live. 

But, the next breath always follows and I continue to fight and survive.  I always do.  Just give me the strength for one more day.  How long until I am begging for one more hour, one more minute, one more breath?  How long until I no longer have the strength to beg? 

I have lost control and my life continues without me.  My children, my health, my job, my finances, my mind, my soul, my spirit, all spinning, what will prevent me from being sucked into the vortex of my personal cyclone?