The Martyr

She said "Just write the words. They will come". But I sat dumbfounded, wondering how a piece of paper could be so stark, so blinding in its emptiness. I felt my eyes would bleed from the intensity of the pain it induced as I stared at it. I wondered who she was talking to and said aloud, "Just write what? What am I supposed to tell them"? The task seemed overwhelming. How could I find those words? What part of my being would they come from? How could I possibly make anyone understand what it's like? How would they know how lovingly indescribable this had been, these many years?

Instead, I gazed out the window and watched the waning light fade to darkness and still I sat. The darkness enveloped me as the quiet became deafening and the oneness of being utterly alone struck me. Songs that described portions of my life couldn't be summoned from the depths of my despair. How much more? How much more could be taken from me I wondered aloud to no one, most especially God. God now being relegated to 'no one' status.

Morning came and went as I sat nearly motionless until the urgency in my body forced me to move. Nature called. I relented and gave up my throne of despondency to retreat to the water closet. Maybe this could be a new refuge for me. I wondered if I could set up a home there? Small, cold and somewhat inconvenient, I reckoned it wasn't advisable.

Suddenly the time was upon me. I had to shower, dress, greet and play the part. An unscripted play to which I had become the lead. I've never been the lead in so many dramas over so little a span of time. Why me Lord? Where was Kris Kristofferson when I needed him?

On arrival there were many there, waiting. "What are they waiting for?" I thought. "Who are all these people?" Why are these boys, once so small and needy holding my arms? Are they trying to lean on me? "Don't lean so hard. I can barely stand up" was all I could muster from my tired, yet restless mind. What happened to the sleep I'd sought yesterday? And yesterday's yesterday. I'd forgotten to sleep. Now what?

She was there and asked "Did you write it?" Everyone stood when we entered. 'No' I replied and moved on to the pew reserved for me and family. The room was without enough seats as it was. My niece looked pleadingly at me wanting to hold and support me as I'd done for her so many times before. "Come" I said and reached for her to follow. My niece. The girl who adored me from the time she could walk. The daughter I never had. One who would protect me or care for me should I ever ask. I only wanted her by me so that she stay comforted in my time of anguish. Her comfort being derived from being with me-an unappointed duty that she took to heart. In her comfort she would be helping me, so she surmised.

The time came and I rose. No paper with me, words typed in black and white to describe a life in so little time. A life of love, pain, grief, joy, heartache, triumphs and missteps. How to sum it up? I spoke from the periphery of my heart, for nothing or no one would feel the hurt built inside it. Spare everyone around was my objective, so there is no more suffering, except mine. Keep it small; keep in encased; keep it close and never let it out.
The words seemed to be appreciated as I looked out over the crowd. The nods expressed understanding as if "they" could truly begin to understand. No, they would never understand. But the words were there as a topical salve to cool the burn of loss. A temporary remedy to a malignant hurt.

Later she said "You did good sister belle. You did good". My forced smile belied the pain behind the mask I wore. "Thank you" and I walked away, alone in the crowd of family and friends. Head high, shoulders back, never to be a victim to the despair that planned to make its way into my soul.