Le Cadeau
Ophelia’s scream.
You watch her face — Kate Winslet’s face — her eyes screaming with her lips, her cheeks, her voice. The depth tears the listener… a shallow cut with poison seeping silently draining color.
There are faces about in the dusty, humid, slightly suffocating room. Faces that carry volumes of pain. There, a little boy waits patiently as his father holds a partly severed finger to his hand. There, and old man hunched over in tragedy, trying to ease it. There, a woman coughs and pulls away a bloody handkerchief. There, a girl rests her head on her grandmothers lap, perspiring from high fever. My people. I was a child myself. The hum of the fan was so loud.
Another place. Another time. Waiting again. Carpeted floors, cushioned chairs, florescent lights. Cleanliness spelled in every corner. And pain:
Tears. Sobs. Screams.
So surprised I was. Astonished.
Why so loud?
My head bowed, my eyes closed, my senses erupting.
But that was so long ago… this bewilderment. Adaption is a way of life, right?
Then why do I remain behind?
The gift to have Ophelia’s scream!! The freedom! The exhausting!
The Gift!
If only I had fingers to pull the ribbon, tear the paper, open the box…
If only.
Ah, the perfection of your writing. I cannot speak of it now, only that this here feels sobering, then suddenly you are speaking of the gift!
Imagining you or me with such stark unexpectedness of that sort of freedom–
will keep me startled, keep me smiling, all day. . . If only!
Comment by TigerlilyIndiana — January 23, 2007 @ 1:33 pm
This seems pretty in line with what we talked about earlier. Also, did you have to go to a hospital for your major or something?
Comment by Justin — January 23, 2007 @ 8:52 pm
There is so much. Between the lines, beneath the surface, in the imagery. Where to start…
Comment by Lauren — January 29, 2007 @ 12:32 am