Wednesday, October 31, 2012
I am here today because I love you. You have a disease and this is how it affects me. I wanted to believe, to be like you and place one foot one small step in front of another, but I have seen the body dredged from the waters, the worms that spill like seeds upon the shore. What had those eyes seen before they were food for the crabs? Was it always green fields? The covenant between a young girl and the flowers, the animals: to everything a name and we blossom to fill the space of those words. The soft spray of the surf nothing more than kiss upon innocent skin. And then what was first? The mistaken moment when she uttered the word: riptide? Or did the waves sing their songs of a home unbounded by shores? Did she believe standing there with a stranger under the moon that both could feel at home? But certainly one or both must be away from home. Exactly who was whose guest to be worked out over tea. But then who would make the tea? And who would remark, “Oh this is lovely. And I do love what you’ve done with the portico.” Then perhaps she goes to name the sea and the sea informs her that it has its name. The sea is not angry. It asks her name. She has never given herself a name; so, she asks the sea to give her one. The sea gives her the only other word it knows— a word with no meaning to the sea: diminishing. At first the girl is pleased, but as she blossoms, grows into it, she feels less and less herself. She returns to find the birds have flown away. The lamb consumed the clover field, the wolf the lamb, the hunter the wolf, the industrialist everything else. Soon she finds there is no place like home. She sheds crocodile tears into the sea. “What is wrong?” asks the sea. “I am less and less—diminishing.” The sea is sorry to hear the words, but can offer no relatable anecdote for with every tear the sea increases. “Can I come with you? Is there another home that I may enter?” she asks. “Of course,” the sea says, “for as long as you want and longer.” But she will always be diminishing. And when she finally returns home, she is no more. You ask me to have faith that the waves will hold me. I cannot. My mother, my father before me were both diminishing. I will remain in the boat and be tossed by the turbulent waves. Perhaps, in your eyes, I am diminishing and with me your faith in me. The others—those who you did not ask to walk with you— they whisper. I hear their words; they sound strange to me. They blossom into silence, silence that lingers between us.