Debris

The debris was as far as she could see. She squinted harder to bring the focus clearer but the charred aftermath remained the same.  It was surreal. The eerie silence was a world that had taken heed of the latest explosion and silenced itself in respect. 

Giving herself time to process, she knew the drill.  First, she would reel from the shock of the shrill reverberations.  Then, slowly, she would allow the shock to pass through her and the silence would come.  In time she knew that she would find her straw broom, the old one she used for messes and begin to sweep the debris into tiny piles.  She learned on her own that tiny piles were easier to manage.  She had to figure this out on her own, she never had anyone to teach her the ways of the world.  Left to fend for herself from a tiny child to an old woman, she always longed for truth. Some sort of guidance of how to navigate this human experience.

She had experienced so many life stressors that she could tell the size and impact by the energy shock to her body and the the debris that rained down as a result. 

She sees no one around, she is alone. Her world is black and white, there is no color. She sees gray particulate and soot settling to the ground.  The haze of gray slowly billows away and starts to lighten in color. 

She is numb to the cause of the chaos, it doesn’t matter anymore.  She can’t slow it down even though she’s given it a herculean effort over the decades.  A familiar helplessness washes over her as she wonders where her broom is. 

Radically accept it, don’t try to control it, pray to God more, breathe, stay in the moment, go inside yourself, life is hard, shit happens.

Pick your affiliation and orientation and there is your answer.  They are all valid.

She looks around again. There is no one to hurt her further but there is also no one to help her. She is still alone. A wispy memory touches her of a time with the joy of family. She allows that memory only for a brief moment before the familiar and unwelcome stab comes. She sweeps that memory in it’s own little pile. She looks around again and she is still alone. 

She finds her broom and leans her head onto it. She glimpses on where she was before the explosive trigger. She remembers. A place of beauty, a place of safety. A place she’s rarely, if ever known in her life. The transient place that she prays herself into as much as there are hours in the day. 

It doesn’t matter now, it’s gone and the debris is here.  She must cope with the debris now.  No time to sit in the rubble and remember the beautiful place. 

What caused it this time?  The losses have accumulated into a growing pile off to the side where she has sorrowfully and methodically swept them for decades.  She will look at the pile someday but not now. 

She knows she’s a fragile burn victim.  She weeps as the tears burn her tender skin. Her body shows the deep blisters to the bone, scarred over again and again, never having the chance to heal before the next caustic episode.

Is this a life?