My mind is like an old black and white film on mute,
moving with pictures of scenes of my life.
Eyelids flutter like the shutter lens of a camera
as I relive the snapshots thus far.
Some are easily identifiable;
high school graduation, first kiss, New Orleans,
others are hopes for the future,
family, travel, publish
and still,
others are foggy.
It's those moments,
the withered and torn
that outnumber the rest.
You see, the blurry is actually quite clear to me.
I've become an expert at closing the doors
to every ounce of happiness
suited up in a handsome penguin tuxedo
waiting patiently on my front step,
that I've forgotten what it's like to be loved
just because I am.
a daughter,
a sister,
a granddaughter,
a niece,
a friend,
a mentor,
a husband's future wife.
So, I come to terms with my brokenness
and inability to make things right again
and fall to my knees.
They are bruised from surrendering pieces of my life before -
but never fully exposed because I wore long pants
and long shirts,
to cover the hurt that I have endured.
My face makes love to the dirt floor
as I ask for your forgiveness;
for Your love once again.
And then, I feel something wet
fall from the place of sight
and caress my rosy red cheeks.
Immediately, I look to see a
naked, young tear mix with the
former life of my knees,
and provide sound to the once muted film.
I now hear the laughter of a child,
of Me -
happy,
running through a meadow
in a pink sundress
with a bounty of wildflowers of varying colors:
a jellybean purple,
a summer time lemonade,
a marshmallow white.
I pick up one of each color and
hold them in my small pale hands.
Skipping, giggling, innocence arriving.
I lift my face to the one I've been waiting for all along
and realize
that I have already been made clean.
(Copyright, Alex Puleo: April 9, 2012)
