and so she stumbled forward.
at the bits and pieces of herself, she had left behind,
forgotten by the side of the road.
awaiting the next distraction,
she looked out the sun-washed window, biting her lip.
he wasn’t coming.
she could feel it.
he wasn’t coming.
That was then. Time and fury stalked the room, the sidewalks bore the brunt of those angry days.
Before dawn, standing just now in the kitchen, she could hear the “wit, wit, wit” of the Cardinals welcoming the day.
She was right, he hadn’t. Some trumped-up excuse but the results ended up the same. It had been a couple of years, and she thought back to him; occasionally. Why today? No idea.
Actually, in the end, today, she would have to say she was happy it ended that way. One more rip at the heart had done its job, and she now bundled up with her solitude. Embraced it, cherished it. Lovingly wrapped in something she could once and for all count on; herself.
She’d learned to cope without the things she thought she desired. Piece by piece, bit by bit, she simplified. Grew roots.
now it is far away from those grey days
And so, this new May Day. This Beltaine, dance round the fire weekend, ending with rain. Fitting.
wash it all away
But we let go. We release. We cleanse ourselves of the grip of sadness, we surrender the past, embrace what is.
Challenged, that day she thought it was all going forward, lickity split, just as it ought, or so she had thought. But as each minute of silence vanished, his silence crushed her. Knocked her.
She had seen him those couple of times since, but it had been some time since she herself had crossed the road since she had cared; he could be alive or dead.
What is it they say about ungranted wishes? Thank goodness for them, or some such.
There was going to be no gentle stroll down the lane, hand in hand with her love. No fairytale happy ending. None of that would feed the creative soul that thrived on chaos and the wounds that a well-lived life may inflict.
She learned how to fly free, of ourselves, free of the past, free of the imprisonment of self. Self-inflicted, the crime of being…
Today, just now, right there in the kitchen, she did a little dance. A jig?
little jig she did,
in honour of,
of all damn things,
Good god! On a Monday no less.
I remember that other girl, you know. Vividly. That girl who waited that day for a man who never came. Never would. Or, maybe never could. I remember how pretty she thought she looked. How sad she was. I remember her tears. I remember.
And so it is, she lived happily ever after, anyways.
Or damn near. Pretty close.
What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. And becomes a stranger.
We become women of strength, and battle-scarred. And we garden. We get our nails dirty in the soil. We transplant Creeping Jenny, and sit by the window and listen to the rain instead. Enjoy the rain.
to that man who never came, i am