And I had just been telling him about my personal philosophy, confessing myself to be a sweet spinner of hopes that all things of pain morph into something beautiful
Relaying the story about my mother who stood stationary in the muck of Vile, damning us to a tomb of “did she ever really love us?”
And expressed to him that all stories keep moving on, even the hard ones, and that my Entirety believes that there is always something beautiful offered amid the putrid abyss if only time can pass and the hurt can lay down to rest with the wonder of the human soul,
to create something new out of the temporary quiet of Just-Beingness.
And he calls me a hippie
and I tenderly scrape food from his beard. And want to do so, Forever.
Then–as if by prophecy—there is yet more to endure, this broken man just too broken to love me, and–later–as I imagine Beethoven and his 9th symphonic work of magic, I attempt to cry the heartbreak out of my body and think to myself “it was all nothing”, my love for him, just my mind making music in a soundless empty room, like Beethoven, deaf to the truth and playing inside his own head the fantasy of what his music sounded like, and then in darkness and light, I begin to live the sadness of an end from which there is nothing to save, my heart now pierced by being unloved and by the absence of even the hope of love, and my sleep is peppered with grief and my gut aches from whimpering, and I’m a stranger, and not even my dreams have wondered whether beauty was there.
But in the clear light of day, there is breath in the air, cool and scented of earth,
And the sun—she, the beautiful star—remains steady, as our planet races through its story, living its own dark and light and incomparable savagery, whispering to us all
“And what of Beauty? Can She be spared?”
Then this thing that feels bigger than heartbreak implodes, and my mind goes to my sister and I crying at her kitchen table, and my words, “it isn’t that she doesn’t love us; it’s just that she can’t even see us through her own pain”
in that clear dawn of another day, I start to come back, listening to my story created with music old and new,
and working hard until the day is dark,
I return home to wagging tails and purring cats, and collapse on a kitchen chair in both grief and gratitude, for even in the pain of that day I had remembered to leave a light on for them,
Then everything triggers, and doubled-over and with quaking voice, I sob and with catching breath, promise over and over that I would try with every bit of my soul to make it so that nothing in this world should ever feel unloved again,
And Kiki flops at my feet and Carmela shuffles around, wagging her tail, And I kiss them and they walk away, and I stand there, In pain yet holding space in my heart for Love,
And suddenly realize that the story has moved on and that the beautiful thing that this hardship created