Sunday, May 31, 2009

Hands

I don't remember what you said when you grabbed my hand last night, only that your hand was very cold. I tried not to look at you or respond. Everything is so complicated now.


I remember when your hands were warm -- when you held my hand aloft on the Mall as we waved that little flag, when we held hands surreptitiously in the parking lot one summer night.


I remember writing that the hardest part of this scene is the "hot and cold" -- ardent proclamations of love one day, the next the cold shoulder of fear. I wrote that a woman must have the patience to wait for the tide to turn, or else turn away from this kind of man.


It's hard when you can't tell the truth even to yourself. It's hard when you are not allowed to grieve for someone you were never supposed to love.


Now, a light has been shed and we scatter like roaches, cursing that light that has stripped away our protective cloak of darkness. How much longer do you plan to hide from yourself and from God?

No comments:

Post a Comment