Some wounds hate to be healed.
Some fester like obstinate,
petulant children standing firm
on some principle, reasonable or not.
Some worsen in time and become
permanent sores on a crippled
psyche—the victim of acts of aggression
that were so abusive, so socially odious
(their malicious nature so pure)
that they are eternally unforgivable.
Unwittingly, though unerringly, she lives by her script—the coping tapes, the survival codes, the ones we write in childhood to get through each day to the next. Unchallenged, thus unrevised, her script crafts her future as predictably as we mark the movement of the stars.
In her early pubescent days—the heavy-burdened days of her young and tentative womanhood—she sought the mother love she’s never had from boys whose nature-driven bodies sought something else.
These collisions of mismatched wills and wiles, of offers and compromise—acceptance of disguised, deceptive, and fleeting fulfillment—refined and sculpted her nature and fate.
She gave the boys what they wanted. Oddly, to her, at times she enjoyed giving them what they wanted–and what they gave to her. But when they were done she was empty again. She did not feel loved.
Now, in her tightly-bound woman world, romance as she knows it abides ever so briefly to protect her from the certainty of common life, the reality of change and loss of which she is most afraid. It is tricky to manage though. It is increasingly demanding to keep reality at bay. The pain of unmet expectations in another ill-conceived, starry-eyed adventure—one more self-scripted romantic failure, is a moment of utter, bitter confirmation that she is surely unworthy of worthy love.
Yet, loyal to script, each painful encounter is new. She is caught unaware, fully surprised at this great, awful, unwanted, unearned suffering of a kind and measure so very familiar to her should she dare to give it even a passing sideways glance for an honest moment or two.
For her denial of authorship, the cost is high. Unremitting tears well up from deep reservoirs of longing where love so desperately wants to be.
Oh, dear woman, your release awaits you on the other side of your sorrow, should you choose to love yourself … at last.
Some goodbyes are hard to do.
Some are easy — even sought.
My hardest was losing you
and the awful pain it brought.
It has been a very long goodbye,
nor is it almost over yet.
As, you see, I still ask why
in fear I shall too soon forget.
This sad house is not a home
since you left and took your
noises and your scents to be alone
with your promise of evermore.
It is such an unkind building now,
for you still call from hollow rooms
so clearly, if asked, I would vow
I’ll surely see you here again, soon!
It was a beautiful night in June
and the Angels were all in tune
when Willie went off the bridge
after leaving his wife and kids.
It’s not a new story, you’ve heard it before.
Still, let me tell you some more.
What drove him to commit such an act?
The answer is in the not uncommon facts.
Willie had tried very hard to succeed in life
yet his efforts seemed to bring only strife.
A good woman, his wife, of that he was sure
but there were things he could no longer see her endure.
So he left. What else could he do?
He hoped she could start life anew.
Willie had wanted to do at least one important thing right
but he failed so often he had lost all his fight.
Now, it seemed, it was the end of the line
and, at first, he sought solace in a bottle of wine.
But his hopes went down with each swig he drank
and he kept having visions of walking a plank!
His mood got worse and his suffering got deeper
til’ finally he decided it was time for the Reaper.
By now, there’s no doubt, his thoughts weren’t too clear
and the juice in the bottle had dispelled all his fear.
So, Willie decided it was time to let go
not understanding he was his own worst foe.
But, he thought, “How do I do it, it’s all new to me.
shouldn’t it be easy to set oneself free?”
Willie pondered on this for a good space of time.
How does one go about a Reaper to find?
What should I say when I finally meet him?
There must be some rules about how to greet him!
It troubled him greatly not to know these things.
Was this knowledge reserved for Princes and Kings?
Why have I not been taught all this stuff?
Is it because I am not important enough?
Ah well, he thought, “What can I do?
If I do it all wrong, who’s gonna sue?
I’ll play it by ear, I’ll learn as I go.
Anyway, other than Him, who’s gonna know?”
So, with firmness of mind, he concluded his pact;
he was determined to make it a first class act!
For once in his life he was going to succeed;
he would make this history’s best-ever last deed!
As he walked, he envisioned himself at the edge;
with courage and grace he’d make good his last pledge!
His last act on Earth would be perfect and bold,
a thing of great beauty, a thing to behold!
And, then … he was there, on the edge of the steel.
It was all quite exciting and so intensely real.
He felt more alive than ever before!
He felt like a God in mythical lore!
He paused for a moment to feel his new might.
At last he was going to do something right!
He savored the moment, gazed up at the stars
absent the notion that this was bizarre!
And then he was off—out into the air,
both subject and watcher–a selfish voyeur!
He spread his arms wide like an eagle in flight,
back arched, legs together—straight and tight.
His face was radiant with a smile of great joy,
his emotions surpassed even those as a boy!
My God, he thought, “I’ve never felt so alive!
Last long, last long, you beautiful dive!”
Of course gravity had it’s own thing in mind
and his fall was measured precisely in time.
Still, his style was perfect. His angle just right
and the splash from his entry was ever so slight.
The water felt good, he felt a rush in its grasp.
It was cool and refreshing, a perfect end to his task.
Because of his entry, so smooth and so sleek,
he slipped through the water, descending quite deep.
But his arch, so perfect, so tuned to the act,
soon turned him upward ‘til, alas …. he was back
at the surface, still smiling, alive and quite well,
thinking, “Dear God, do I have a story to tell!”
Well, life can be fickle and succeed he did not,
at least in the sense of his self-devised plot.
So what, you may ask, is the rest of this story?
Well, it’s all about Willie’s ultimate glory.
You see, Willie’s intentions were not as they seemed.
The pay-off he got wasn’t part of his scheme.
At least that’s what he thought in his desperate mind.
Yet, what he got was exactly what he set out to find.
You see, he got what he wanted so much in his heart;
he got a new Willie and he got a new start.
A new beginning was Willie so desperately seeking.
He really wasn’t ready for the Great Final Reaping
and in one powerful, beautiful, great single act
Willie was able to keep his own pact,
to do something big and to do it just right.
It was just what he needed; he was back in the fight!
He had never felt better and he had a new life!
So, with dignity and pride, he went back to his wife.