An Unexpected Grief

(Sometimes we write to connect with others. Other times we write to connect with ourselves, our pain. This is one of those circumstances. This piece of writing is oblique and I know it.  Even so, I can’t bring myself to be otherwise. Yet.)

Will you weep with me? Share my woe? Then perhaps it will be halved, divided. Might you accompany me to the places sadness leads, examine the items it dredges up? 

            I grieved the unknown then found I preferred it to the truth. Now randomly, frequently, the surprise of loss claws at me, flings punches in the vicinity of my kidneys. I wasn’t ready. It was too soon, much.

            The trail of my tears is charcoal gray with bits of plum and glimmers of silver shine, or is it Fool’s Gold?

             The feeling of responsibility whether warranted or not is insistent. If only . . . What if . . . I shouldn’t have . . . It’s not even my burden but I take it on gladly, not wanting it to break another beneath its crush.  And then there is the silence, the secret, that must be maintained. We cannot open wounds in others with this knowledge. Secrecy is a frigid lightless cave insisting you are alone even if you're not.

            Should I thank this sorrow for the way it’s making my hand bleed upon the page? In this moment, I wish I’d write never more. Will I be despised? For my incompleteness, my lack of clarity, my refusal to truth tell? Translate my reticence as mystery, an opportunity. Fill in the blanks with your heart. What is your secret grief, your regret? What is the reason you hum, “Turn your eyes upon Jesus” and soon after, “And the things of this world will grow strangely dim”? Or perhaps your song is, "Comfortably Numb."

            I want to gather the people who know, the very few—the two, no, three, who are aware. I’ll arrange us in a row with me in the middle then I’ll unfold a handkerchief and smooth it out atop my thighs, outline a fuchsia lipstick heart in the center. Soon after, I’ll drop my tears inside of it. 

Imagine Me and You, and You and Me, So Together

1) If you could tell me something, anything, what would you say? Whisper it right now please, into the pale pink folds of my ear. Afterward I will press imaginary snaps on my upper and lower lips and conceal your secret forever. Or if you prefer, write it on parchment with a fountain pen and hand-deliver or mail it to me. I’ll read the words and burn them immediately, inhaling the smoke till I cough.

2) If you were to show me something, what might it be? I’m holding out my hand because I want you to take me there. Or, draw a picture of it. Maybe record it on film. I want to see. Really.

3) If you could give me something to taste, one of the most wonderful things ever or your right-now-favorite-food, what item would you choose? Record the recipe for me, or better yet, deliver the item or culinary creation to my porch in a gift bag, snuggled in shimmery aqua tissue paper. Ring the bell and run, or not. I could make coffee . . . 

4) Is there something you want me to touch—an item sleek and smooth, cool even, or softer than soft, maybe prickly and dangerous? Bring it here please. We should examine it together, side by side.

5) What is the most interesting fragrance you know? Is it sacred to you? Live and yellow as lemons? Smoky and warm like radiant coals sequestered in greyed ash? Perhaps it's cloying but pristine lilies-of-the-valley? Warm and yeasty rolls in a basket under a checked cloth? Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, across from and very close to me.

(Okay now, friends . . . don’t be shy. What are your five things?)

No Longer Certain

It confounds me how your love can exist so comfortably beside your secret. A radiant warmth snuggled next to an abysmal darkness. A pool of green water. Still. Absolutely unaffected by earthquakes all around.

            Eyes wide, I peer into your shine. Try to gulp it in. I’m almost blinded. A moment later, off to the right, the shadow of your mystery arrives to abduct your brilliance.

            I think I can live right here. In this space—between my karate chop hands held a foot apart--if I pretend the lack of light is a lie. A miscommunication. Soon after though, I become sure of your misdeeds. They nip at my ankles. Draw my feet (and heart) down like quicksand.

I could not for the life of me stop thinking of Adam and Eve. Eve mostly, though I wondered why Adam didn’t rise up. Be the man. Do the right thing. Stop. Eve.

            I felt, for the second time in my life, a bit like God. Foolish, I know. But similar still.

            We were perfect, weren’t we? But really, we weren’t. The lie, the what if, had already slipped in. Tainted paradise. Infected glory.

Now I understand how the worst thing that can happen is doubt. Mine. Yours. And now I live as though someone stepped on my eyes. That shape on the horizon, is it beauty, or evil? And the form to the left of it. Tell me. Is it kindness or deception?

            I think that’s what I miss most. The certainty that what I know is what I know.

            And yet I love you still.