vii. warmth

it begins as a searing point of light. as the coils tighten their tender fingers around the dark matter, i can no longer see. still, i sense the dark wings fluttering, carrying their echoes of anxiety, abandoned responsibility, thin air, and stunted growth. i cringe at the mournful chiming of the christmas bells. gifts, well-intended, lie leaden on my chest and strain my brittle fingers. the one i love lifts me from the gloom for but awhile, but then we argue, stutter and regret displaced cruel words.

it doesn't have to be like this. the cold does not comfort, the fireplace echoes emptily in the chill dark. the shadows of cattle and wildlife stare back from the night, their cold enormous eyes barely illuminated by the superficial exterior bulbs, lining roofs and warding off strangers. at this time, and always, it is only the familiar we hold dear.

and what of the light, that pinpoint gripping, searing, severing and stifling thoughts and stillborn kind words? the shards reach eyelids, cheekbone, neck, twisting in severity with the clanging of the bells. this pain is inherited. i carry it with the weight of our women, the coming heaviness and tears of childbirth, the pin pricks turned to burning prods that acknowledge no origin. they, as my body, have always been a part of me. i long for wholeness and reconciliation, not release. i can no more escape the pinpricks of light than i can cease to exist. the tendrils keep their grip firmly, unyielding. i try to breathe, eyes closed, seeing nothing, but feeling for the first time a gentle warmth near my hand. i hold hands with it and do not move, do not speak, as a single tear rolls toward my pillow.