Thursday, August 26, 2010


I sat in a chair last night, and I cried. I could not make it stop. In my lap was my little Molly. She sat and watched me cry. She looked sad, and concerned. She took the tissue from my hand, and began to wipe my tears. She kissed me over and over, and stood up in my lap, and hugged my head, so tightly. It made me cry more. It was beautiful, and pure. Innocent, and filled with sincerity. I have not felt that much love and comfort, physically, in some time. Yet it made my heart break. My 15 month old baby girl was comforting me. It shouldn't be this way. Yet her love and comfort felt so good.
I was unable to sleep last night. I would begin to drift off, and worry would make my heart begin to race. It kept happening, for hours. I prayed. I begged God, and every dead relative to help me.  Help all of us. I was tired. I wanted to end the day. The terrible day.
 I began to envision myself walking down a long boardwalk, through the dunes, stretching out to the ocean. The waves were violent, yet the sky was blue, and the wind was brisk. It was cool. I was alone. My hair was down, blowing, getting caught in my nose as I breathed. I came to the end of the boardwalk. I put my bare foot onto the cold sand. It sinks, and as I begin my stride, I feel the small tendons on the back of my toes stretch painfully with each step. The sand squeaks around my heels. Each step, painful stretching. I am walking, against the wind. Pushing my body forward against this invisible force, and feeling the pain of each step I take, in this beautiful place.
I read something yesterday my old roomate from college wrote. She was writing about sitting at the bedside of her dying 90 year old grandmother. Waiting with her, for death to come. Her grandmother was mostly senile. While she slept, my roomate heard her grandmother call out her Mama's name. While she lay dying, she cried out for the memory of the comfort of her Mama's loving arms. Even at 90, and the memory so far away, she yearned for her Mama. This thought haunted me all day.
I am alone. I have no one to help me through this. No friend, no family, no partner. I am guilty of expecting too much. I am guilty of putting my life in someone's hands. I am guilty of forcing my expectations onto other's. I am guilty of walking blindly, against an invisible force, and not noticing the pain of each step. I am guilty of not taking action. I am guilty of hoping for the promise of a better day, and not seeing that it is not coming. I am guilty of believing. I am guilty of accepting the unacceptable.
The leaves are beginning to turn here. The light has changed. The place is the same, yet the elements that sourround me are not looking like they once were. I fear my time here, in this home, and this place in my life, will not be the same when the hummingbirds return next May.
I will look out my window, and watch the change.

1 comment:

  1. Feeling alone and being alone are different. You are not the latter, by any stretch. Hear me?