Every End Is A Beginning
Beginnings. It’s what my brain is telling my fingers to shape this week. The series starts HERE with one of my all-time favorite pieces. Today’s piece is a work of fiction, though my fiction often contains more of myself than I am ever willing to reveal in my own voice. Thank you for visiting, for reading, and for sharing my words.
The grief of the soul assaults everyone in the murky claws of night. She is not exempt. It sinks its talons into her chest and drags her out of bed, her feet protesting as she is propelled down the hall. Is it because she hasn’t slept in a week that she imagines a shape in front of her, a shifting image that changes from leering to loving, from the first blush of amour to the final searing throes of goodbye?
She blinks, her eyelids sluggish from insomnia and torrents of tears. No she decides. Purposeful absence paints him everywhere. Waiting in the car next to her at a random traffic light. Calling at the end of the line with the next trill of the phone. Coming toward her through the stands at a ball game. Sitting just beyond the periphery of her vision at a play. Filling her unopened mailbox with apologies, with revocations, with the admission that he made a mistake when he tossed her away.
Those things never really happen, except in the vacuum where her heart used to be. It’s been hoovered from its moorings and steamrolled into the mud at the back end of a forsaken dirt road. She couldn’t find it if she tried.
Weak light from the refrigerator makes her squint at the bottle of water on the top shelf. Sighing, she grabs it and trudges to the sofa. I was sitting here the last time he walked out that door she thinks to herself as the water falls from her hands and seeps into the cushions and the carpet. Before she can blink, she is kneeling in it, her pajamas soaked and her wet hands blending with the cascading rivers on the landscape of her face. I don’t want to begin again I don’t want to start over I don’t want to…………………
Every end is a beginning.
She heard it spoken aloud, read it in the lanky shadows on the wall, and saw it printed on the insides of her eyelids when she heaved them shut. It stole its way to the wasted carcass that lived where her heart once pumped. With a jolt, it shocked her system into a new start, filled it with the will to begin again.
It wasn’t a dream. She knew it when she awoke on the floor, still damp from the spilled water bottle. Every end is a beginning she whispered.
Her mouth trembled as it formed the first vestige of a timid smile.