Illuminate
New Member
Here you'll find pieces of what makes me who I am. I've never been great at expressing emotion, however I'm finding as of late that I can show you the inner-most parts of my heart through written language. That's all I want, really.. To share with you glimpses of the person behind the screen.
"We were only married a month before he left the first time.. Dressed in his camouflage, with gear strapped to his pack hung over his shoulder." She gathers the courage to speak.. After long dark hours of weeping hard. Salty tears still run over, streaking a tear stained face, and she manages a broken smile.
"He came home after seven long months, and we got pregnant then. Our son; Jack was born, and then he left for his second tour…"
I sit there, across from her curled up on her couch with knees drawn to my chin as she speaks of moments now turned to memories. How does a young wife come out of the darkness of death? How does she live after her life is taken by a bomber in another country who believes he's doing the right thing?
"When he came back a year later, Jack didn't remember him.." Her lip quivers, and she pauses. Swallowing the ever present threat to break again.
Men who serve.. Who lay aside their families, their wives and children to protect others. Who protects his own? A child knowing of a father, but not knowing his father. Who see's him across a screen on occasion with bullets ricocheting off of bunker walls, and he tells his son he loves him. That he'll be home soon. He doesn't know what it is to be held in a father's embrace.
I hand her the box of tissues, almost used up, and rise to start a pot of coffee before I have to leave. She continues. Her voice soft with pain.
"I never thought this would happen. You prepare for it, but you don't. If that makes any sense. God, I love him so much. "
Her voice quakes, and I look over my shoulder with compassion on my face. Tears flow again, and she takes a moment to recompose. She uses present tense. As though he's still alive, and he is; in her heart.
Life is a vapor. And at any given moment we're reminded of how precious it really is. My heart breaks, and it seeps out on my cheek and in my words.
"He's never going to meet his daughter.. Or hold Jack again.. I'll never be able to reach over to his side of the bed, and feel his steady breathing."
She runs over the 'never again's, and I hand her a mug of french vanilla coffee, and resume my place opposite her. She takes it with thanks, and brings it to chapped and sob swollen lips. I peer at her over the rim of mine and take a sip.
I don't have words. But she doesn't need them. She just need an ear, and a shoulder. That peaceful listening before family begins filtering in from out of town making her broken world a confusing and chaotic place in preparation for a hero's funeral.
"What do you regret?" I ask, because everyone has them. Moments where they wish time would unfurl, and life could be relived for that moment to be made right again.
"Not telling him I loved him one last time."
Love. Isn't that what it comes down to in the end? Whether or not you loved well? Lived well?
To love is to live, and without love you're not really living the life intended for you.
|Walls|
Once upon a time
Her walls were high
Unscaled, and unified.
Defenses all around
No one knew what went on inside.
Legends and stories of long ago
Brick by brick those walls began to grow
Painful stories of war and famine
A broken land, ravaged.
And so in protection
The defenses went up
Guarded from all infection
Defenses do not denote strength
Keep this in mind
Walls around a subject
Speak of one's inability to cry
Protection of brokenness
Prevents further carnage
But healing does not happen
To those in self-imposed cages
Only one was ever able to climb
Scaling the tops, and reaching inside
Little by little, soothing balm was spread
Until those walls were mere threads
Trust became real, and hope was seen
Until one day, those fled the scene
And in it's place she was left once again
Back at the beginning with a brick in her hand
Once upon a time
Her walls were high
Unscaled and unified...
A Soldier's Wife
"We were only married a month before he left the first time.. Dressed in his camouflage, with gear strapped to his pack hung over his shoulder." She gathers the courage to speak.. After long dark hours of weeping hard. Salty tears still run over, streaking a tear stained face, and she manages a broken smile.
"He came home after seven long months, and we got pregnant then. Our son; Jack was born, and then he left for his second tour…"
I sit there, across from her curled up on her couch with knees drawn to my chin as she speaks of moments now turned to memories. How does a young wife come out of the darkness of death? How does she live after her life is taken by a bomber in another country who believes he's doing the right thing?
"When he came back a year later, Jack didn't remember him.." Her lip quivers, and she pauses. Swallowing the ever present threat to break again.
Men who serve.. Who lay aside their families, their wives and children to protect others. Who protects his own? A child knowing of a father, but not knowing his father. Who see's him across a screen on occasion with bullets ricocheting off of bunker walls, and he tells his son he loves him. That he'll be home soon. He doesn't know what it is to be held in a father's embrace.
I hand her the box of tissues, almost used up, and rise to start a pot of coffee before I have to leave. She continues. Her voice soft with pain.
"I never thought this would happen. You prepare for it, but you don't. If that makes any sense. God, I love him so much. "
Her voice quakes, and I look over my shoulder with compassion on my face. Tears flow again, and she takes a moment to recompose. She uses present tense. As though he's still alive, and he is; in her heart.
Life is a vapor. And at any given moment we're reminded of how precious it really is. My heart breaks, and it seeps out on my cheek and in my words.
"He's never going to meet his daughter.. Or hold Jack again.. I'll never be able to reach over to his side of the bed, and feel his steady breathing."
She runs over the 'never again's, and I hand her a mug of french vanilla coffee, and resume my place opposite her. She takes it with thanks, and brings it to chapped and sob swollen lips. I peer at her over the rim of mine and take a sip.
I don't have words. But she doesn't need them. She just need an ear, and a shoulder. That peaceful listening before family begins filtering in from out of town making her broken world a confusing and chaotic place in preparation for a hero's funeral.
"What do you regret?" I ask, because everyone has them. Moments where they wish time would unfurl, and life could be relived for that moment to be made right again.
"Not telling him I loved him one last time."
Love. Isn't that what it comes down to in the end? Whether or not you loved well? Lived well?
To love is to live, and without love you're not really living the life intended for you.
