I am tired. It has been so long. God bless her soul. I remember her songs. They lifted me up. Her cherubic voice soothed my soul. Not to mention her smile, which trust radiated, and love, and in which my weariness still turns into hope, consonant with her manner, for me who knew even so that she cried inside.
Now she cries no more, and for me too, it is too late to cry. She rests in me for peace in us. Not again would she need to sit by my side all day long, stroking my shaggy head, until she told me in her usual reassuring tone, that some grooming was in order, and that my hair would soon grow back, to hide, further to my wish, the face that so pained my soul. She talked to me, and really, she does.
That she would do anything she felt made me happy was certain she knew my heart in which rejoiced to know. Even as something told me she knew it was not being just there, that our souls indeed were one, it mattered little it seemed to her that she was right to know that the contact was real. That I being here seemed enough for her my soul would never refute.
That all else must feel so sorry for me, even must want me to give up on hope, was sometimes the way my soul read and interpreted the world around me. It is indeed a miserable life, in some way that many would consider strange to want to turn into one of fullness of spirit backed with will to live despite it all.
Perhaps being what they call a shell for so long makes my soul inert but my world alive. With a stone face that some told to it was weird worse still when my shuffle propelled me forward defiant of intrinsic centripetal forces, and my words slurred to a halt, taking my world along, my early years must have inspired a few, perhaps even myself excluded.
To then imagine crashing with my fast short steps in a freak accident, my face now contorted is little comfort, as the face sometimes for me should rather be flat. That who alone offered succour even as my transformations worsened resides in me reassures as ever, perhaps why being together again my soul craves.
With my mother long gone, and father too, it was necessary to learn to love again, for me, the root of the peace that is the wellspring of hope and health, and an eternal appreciation of the precious gift life is. Little did how much to learn strike me then, and to say that now is different probably could only beguile.
The intensity of my love for her only she would ever know. Even when now my soul cries to join her she tells me it is okay, that it is my choice to remain here or leave. For me to still be here though she says informs how much hope could inspire. True, as not even the silence is enough to tire me, not the caustic remarks about which, obviously assumed, I am ignorant, and not the subtle messages that my being a nuisance is becoming intolerable would.
My resolve remains strong to ignore negative vibes and focus on the joy of being here, just here, and to embrace what many seemingly better endowed perhaps fail to see, their lives in turn a charade, the boredom in their souls not enough to garner the splinters all around of their glass world, they sadly it seems only sometimes admit.
My heart bleeds for them to force their desires on me. In the stillness my soul dwells they seem to lack the gen about a life lent a view of a world denied his soul in ways that others tread, an array of confusion that they seem to endure clear in crystals of gold that shimmer through the tranquillity that stillness brings.
I reach out to them everyday, en route as we all are to a final place prior to arrival where however life exists for us to bear. That we differ in our abilities to bear the pains inherent in living, regardless of where we station should inform the contrition we must all seek that my mind hopes to propagate and which, even in silence something tells me others would finally know.
So now, my desire to talk is apical, my inward sojourn to reach out to the one with whom my soul does so struggling for expression in a world she has now left even as our souls remain joined as one in me for ever. It is clear that she wants me to remain here, just as she did when she was here, not long ago. As she always did what my soul desired, it feels committed to doing as much for hers.
To be sure, it is hard when you are all alone, the serenity many crave, yours in abundance, even as they seem not to know how much you would rather reach out to them, to let them know that you are here. Then it occurs to me how much we strive to get what we may never do. Yet, that we must never give up on our dreams remains with me for good.
Her prayers still inspire me. Her wisdom never aged, her empathy imbibed by a grandson who would forever be grateful for her love. For life to be that wholesome for someone whose mate suddenly passed away in her prime is instructive, that the angst that makes life often seem so abject we must reject as she counselled even more so. There is thus nothing to praise about being persistently still, but much in which to rejoice being here at all.
I am still here, her smile on my face, a face which seen from within, no longer feels like not mine, the attribution of guilt to being deformed, manifest in my rituals of yore, still sometimes even now in my head, now gone. It matters no more whether it is flat or crooked. Here is where is home, until I am gone.
“Hello, all”. The room is instantly still with all eyes in wonder in my direction, on me. I smile. I do not wish to alarm anyone. It seems just my time to escape from my presumably permanently passive state, back into the world, my home. It is real. I am here, right here, awake and aware.
