Sunday, April 12, 2015
I love you, she called out in the dark, in a half whisper – a hiccup, Tourette-like;
to herself perhaps, to comfort the instability she sits in daily.
It speaks out nightly, at that all familiar 3am hour, bewitched as it so seems, when all spirits unite
and her line to God is direct, free of static.
Those words didn’t fall from grace. A prayer, perhaps, to no one in particular
or across the big pond to her children – she feels the connections – the threadbare cord that still binds
the permanence of love. She so boldly assumes; no –
feels, as it stretches across the miles that separate.
So much has changed. To grasp it at this unencumbered hour, hold it with love as it moves through,
like a transient visitor, one who leaves profound change within the turbulence
while traversing through the muck that has been kicked up in the process;
pondering this is futile at this hour.
I love you, she speaks at quiet moments, faintly audible, a soft hymn that coats the disruption,
smooths the ride, softens the jagged edges that ripped through her heart as she shared a Meritage, chosen just for her palette, as she sat at the bar. She always lets him choose it. She let go of the banal,
put forth no effort, allowing the red to coat her tongue and linger.
I love you, she says to that which holds no place worth considering. Holding on is impracticle.
The wine carries the pointlessness she feels in palatable gulps; she savors the last sips as the triviality slips away. I love you, she must say to the empty vessel, avoiding the temptation to ruminate,
sitting in the expanse as it spreads through her, this liquid, warm and shapeless.
I love you, she welcomes no one, no thing in particular, without question or expectation.
Filled. Because that is all she can do.
Posted by Eden D