Effervescing

bubbles

Around and around we go.  One year.

***

Imagination calls for bodies, the sacred trilogy, naked, clean sheets, soft down, and sweet sounds of shallow sleep.  Wake to cries, then to laughter.  Bodies roll, bodies touch bodies.  Curious eyes take in the world fresh and safe.  Parallel to the womb, but better.  The etch sketch of the mind depicts pictures of love unwoven within the fabric of life undone.  Life recalled from happy lives of friends, from deepest desires, from broken hearts.  A picture perfect postcard of an unmanifested reality to salvage forever.

***

Life lost, Leif lost, vanished into the shadows of absent memories and blooming imagination.  In the mind’s eye, seeing body walking, clumsily, reaching out to touch familiar hands, looking for recognizable faces, grinning, loving.  Feet kicking, growing into crawling, walking…  where would he be right now?  What would he tell me if he could speak?  Would he speak?

***

Life lost of what the heart hoped for and the mind imagined, what it still imagines, in times of stillness, when centuries collapse and decades decay.  Who was my little hummingbird?  Why has he come to perch on my branch at all?  The Father, The Holy Ghost, and the Mother, remembering.  Swimming upstream of watery memories, tiny icebergs melting away.  How can I forget?

***

I can’t even recall the exact date.  I am numb in remembrance.  Flashes of dead flesh amidst a blur of a fast rolling film.  I cling to whatever my mind decided to save…shrapnel from the biggest explosion of my life.  I try to put it all together, but it’s still missing pieces.  The masterpiece never to be completed.

***

One year of tears that could flood the world, screams that created terrible earthquakes, and a billion unanswered questions.  I am still looking for the missing passengers of the train that was derailed.  Happy passengers, with minds full of bubbles.  Where have they gone, those missing pieces?  I am not a whole.  Will somebody tell me who burst all my bubbles?

***

Three hundred and sixty-four days of confusion.  No crossroads, no path either.  A desert, large and barren.  Not even a mirage for thought.  Many hallucinations from a stranger’s past.

***

Searching, searching for directions to elsewhere.  Anywhere but here.  Anywhere but lost.  Reading coordinates in Braille and following the sun, every new rotation, searching.  Waking to find yet another rise and get a step further away from the crash.  If I follow his shadow, will it devour me?

***

Promised land on the horizon with lush green laughter that may just quench the deepest thirst.  Burning feet, and I keep walking.  Further away and closer to.  Shadow.  Chasing my shadow.  Cycles conclude, and rain pours soulfully, effervescing a little more than a bountiful supply of life.

***

Never lost along with memories, never lost with the missing pieces, those passengers of myself.  Hope, the glue that somehow kept it all together, despite of Death, the bludgeon that broke it all apart.

***

It chewed me up and spat me out.  Standing firm on shaky legs, what can I now recover from all that was lost, besides a photo on inside of my medicine cabinet?  Month six ultrasound.  If memories are all that we have, then where do we go to find them?

***

I wake in the middle of the night to a soft movement in my belly.  Body memory, recalling his body.  Phantom memories summoning a ghost.  Maybe that’s how he’s meant to be saved; alive.  Before Death cast its hungry shadows.

 Imagination calls forth…

***

Blurry, as if behind a veil, he stands.  Lean and tall, with piercing blue eyes.  Deer eyes.

***

It rolls in slowly, suspended mid air.   We hold hands and take a deep breath.

Incoming storm of bubbles.

 

 

 

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Healing

A slippery, synthetic duvet is slowly suffocating me, pressing me into the pillows that feel like they’re filled with rocks.  I’m tossing and turning to the sounds of the Beagle snoring at my feet, on top of my feet.  More heaviness.  I can’t breathe.  My throat feels like it’s clogged and someone is stomping on my chest.  It’s emotion.  Feeling displaced.  Both, it, and I…

Where am I?  This was a place I called home at some point, for some time.  The room has been transformed from a colorful teenage chaos filled with posters of Weimaraners dressed up as people and the beautiful face of Jim Morrison, to now, an office with two computer monitors and a couch that pulls out for my arrival.  My mother is sleeping in the room next door, ecstatic to have her little girl home, to tuck her in to a bed that was made with love for a sleepless night.  I drift in and out of consciousness, looking for home on this couch-bed, but home was left behind in Boulder, Colorado, and home is out, dancing and being free for a night away from me.

I try to push the Beagle over, to make some room for breath, for blood to reach my tingling feet, and in the innocence of her sleep, she growls.  Why am I here?  I gaze over and next to me, buried under a ton of heavy air sits “The Tibetan Book of The Dead,” and I remember that I am here to heal.   Here to process the anger that has been erupting like a volcano, being projected at home, on home; the anger that they say is the final stage in the grieving process.  But if grieving is cyclical and if grieving is a process, then how can there be a final step?  Perhaps, a spiral into the ether?

The healing has been slow.  Is slow.  I’ve allowed the past to partially scab over, but picking my scabs has become a bad habit.  Sometimes, I just don’t want to forget.  I scratch to remember what I have lost, longing to hold it close to my heart.  Other times, I wish is to forget, but I bump into things that remind me, and the wounds re-open, get dirty, infected.  I bump into babies on the street, or people who don’t know.  I run into people who know but are too uncomfortable to face me.  I bump into smells, sounds, tastes.  I run myself crazy with memories.

I don’t know what I bumped into tonight, in the room from my past or the room of my dreams, but I am startled awake, remembering and feeling; the density of life.  I miss my home.  I miss Leif.  I miss all that never was.  I’m learning how to live so that I know how to die.  I’m trying.

There will be scars, no doubt.  Wounds like these don’t go unnoticed.  Anger alone leaves streaks behind, welts the size of small mountains.  But I will take scars any day over fresh wounds.  The scars show that I’m a survivor.  My heart beats stronger, and day by day, I’m healing just a little bit more.