|The sink at P.S. 110|
This is where the teacher bent my head over and washed the blood pouring out of my nose off my face. It was just another fist fight I didn't lose.
You'd think I'd get tired of staring into that white porcelain and rusty drain.
But, I couldn't give up the hope that one of my punches would set things right.
Then I got older. I kept punching, but now with blaming and complaining words.
You'd think I'd get tired of pointing fingers at people as I watched them head off to their dreams and I stayed behind.
But, I couldn't give up the hope that if I complained loud enough, my life would unfold.
Then, after I got older older, I noticed I wasn't punching, I wasn't complaining. But I was judging - just very very quietly.
You'd think I'd get tired of the raging noise inside my head
But, I couldn't give up the hope that one day my silent tantrums would make a difference.
It did. It almost destroyed me.
It dawned on me that I had fought the same war with my fists and my words and my thoughts and it was still going on. The only difference between that sink at P.S. 110 and the days I lived now was my bones creaked when I bent over and, instead of fantasizing about candy and the boy next door, I dreamed of long-term health insurance.
War, in all its incarnations, hadn't brought much of anything to anyone, including and especially myself.
With what time is left, why not, why not wean off the fists the complaints the judgement wean off the noise the tantrums the expectation of a blow wean off and then perhaps have space space to wonder at why on earth any of us are here and maybe if there was something delicious to eat and someone even more delicious to kiss.
Sunday Memories: Matthew 26.52
"... all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword..."
Sunday Memories: When We Could Still Cry In The Middle Of A Fist Fight