anatomy of healing

I sit in silence, pinned beneath a precarious pile of heavy thoughts

Should-haves and doubts of every kind hang, like price tags from each weighty memory

I’ve been fooled before into thinking this is a puzzle I can put together

Pieces that will fit satisfyingly, providing a picture in the end. An answer

Social distraction calls to me from my phone, threatening the clear lens of silence and solitude

Wordle completed and news feed checked. I remind myself of the disappointing after-taste of distraction

If these heavy thoughts won’t reveal an answer, why bring them here?

Why unwrap each worrisome package, casting aside wrapping like a pile of Amazon boxes?

Some invisible wisdom in me knows I will never outrun or outwit a single painful notion

Experience alone is enough to impart the knowledge of the sure failure of feigned ignorance

With nothing to do but get on with it, I begin to unwrap each ugly thought or memory

Gently, carefully, I pull back the tissue paper until the thing itself sits naked in my hands

“How will this help?” I mumble quietly to myself, aware that I am no longer alone

Many past-selves sit with me, watching. Their quiet breathing pauses and goes on

Painful and grotesque objects do not miraculously become beautiful during the unwrapping

The light does not transform them into things of loveliness

Pieces of my skin, tissue, heart still cling to sharp edges where they gouged into my being

Each one I examine, turning it over in my hands. Recalling the wound

Every object brings forth a unique past-self. I remember her. I was harsh with her.

She looks up at me, imploring compassion. She desires reaction, like a newborn wailing for milk

When I am present, capable, awake, I ask her forgiveness. I regret the way I turned against her

Her forgiveness is child-like and genuine, given without hesitation or obligation

Tears startle me, pulling me back to my kitchen table, the “real” world.

I sip my coffee, amazed at the lightness in my being

“Thank you,” I whisper