Patchworked
The word resonated within me. 'Never,' she had said. Never again, never in this lifetime. It would never happen. The stars would never align just right, the sun and moon would never meet. The waves take the land and the sky swallow the mountains, but never would we ever be.
Far into the forest, deep beneath the layers of spruce and pine; a darkness cast by a canopy of green so thick one could barely see the blue of the sky through the foliage-laden branches, was my retreat.
Every morning was a gift. Every fresh breath of air, the dew glistening on the grass, the birds twittering in the tree limbs above. To no longer be wracked by the disease--foul, ravaging and wasting as it was--was the sweetest gift ever received. Words could not express how grateful I was to finally be healthy.
It is amazing what the mind can dream up for. Imagination paints us so many pictures or what was, what has been, and what could be. Sadly, it seems our imaginations, once wrought with dragons, faeries and ghosts, become barren as we grow older. We're too busy imagining what will happen to us in the future; imagining our possible failures, our downfalls, our suffering. We imagine the worst.
The failing dignity related to health has always been my least favorite. Despite all you do with your life, your body eventually wilts. You grow hard and lined like a tree, your leaves turn and fall, and you become bent and gnarled, despite everything. Your mind could be as sharp as a thirty-year-old's, and yet still. Still. Your body is through with giving you a dignified decline.
She had always been big and beautiful. Her smile could light up a room. Her eyes always crinkled into the sweetest beads of happiness. She was rough, too, in her own ways. Ruddy red cheeks, swollen feet from standing too long, thinning grey hair. But still, she was always good to me, and I could not see her imperfections through the glow of her kindness.
The rage ripped through like a hurricane at full force. There was no calm 'eye' to this storm, however. No moment to take a calming breath and recenter oneself. No, this fury was born of something too deep and intimate to allow anything like calm back in. It was an emotional Armageddon unfolding, and none who stood in the way would be spared.
"The least I could do." I've heard it so many times. But let me tell you, the 'least' is not even what I require. If you would so much as look at me, meet my eyes and acknowledge my existence, that would be enough. That would be worth more than the heavens and stars or the little dinky cup of old coffee you have presented me with.
writing since 2014 · 8 entries · 8 days shown up
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the words Patch reaches for
leastmeeteyesstarscalmbreathdeepsweetestdespitebodygrowtreemindimagininghappengift