When Wednesday Comes
I’m surprised how fast the week is gone. Ten years of them. Many of those years her extended arm to keep me away. Her pain is hers. Painted onto her by me some days. By him many. There’s no space in anyone’s world for both our pain. I mistakenly carved pieces of it into her, year after year, while screaming silently I would never. Today she is a bully and aggressive and mean sometimes and I’m concerned she may be cruel to her husband. And her heart is big and she is brilliant and she cares for friends and is helping in many many ways. In the carving there was wound packing too. The wound permanent; afterward packed with I’m sorrys, amends, attempts of failed reconciliations. Mostly too late. She will grow, love, heal at her pace and likely carve something into hers year after year while outwardly declaring she will never. Never looking over her shoulder at the space I’ve made should she decide to see along with the millions of her who have been convinced they are alone in theirs because we become invisible and ours is left to smolder in our own tired hearts. The wound’s permanent.
Permanent.