Rest

Friday, April 17, 2015

This post is for a writing challenge on the word "Rest". Every Tuesday there's a new word challenge. You can join  HERE.

I also wrote it after listening to a few hours of poetry slams, while cleaning house, so you'll have to forgive the grammar breaks and run on sentences..... This writing is evidence that sometimes even I think that I'm a superstar. 



Sometimes I am all activity. 

Heart pumping, mind racing, I take names and break hearts.

I don't mean the romantic type of heart breaking, I mean that I have moments where all I want is to feel her near, and so I pound her name into the air with a fist. 

I say her name and watch people's reactions. 

And then I say her name again because I am so flushed with movement that I don't care that her memory hurts. 

I am all tempest and raging sea on those days. I want to shake people and say, "she existed."

I throw her memories out into the wind and those memories become a tornado -- destroying everything in its wake because she reminds people of their fragility and the fact that

everybody

dies. 

Even a small baby whose life had just begun.


In between those days, where I so causally pull people away from their mundane existences; where everyone lives and life on TV is as dramatic as it gets, I find long stretches of time which most people would call "being o.k." 







I could call them "rest" as in, the resting of my brain from constant second guessing. 

Rest from my double-crossing heart, which so flippantly disregarded my frustration when I lost her... And just kept beating. 

Rest from thinking of her tiny palms, covered over by her curling fingers with their impossibly small nails.

Rest from the parts of me which still feel the weight of her in my body. In my arms.

I don't notice when the rest begins -- I just notice that my cheeks hurt from too much smiling and the house is organized and everyone slouches because they are relaxed around me.

I notice my resting state in the dust that settles over her things. 

The photo album that isn't opened. 

I notice my rest when all I'm thinking of isn't how I was cheated of my firstborn daughter. 

My resting state is at odds with the frantic energy that courses through me when I am missing her. Because missing her has become a state of being, not just a feeling. 

I can't be missing and resting at the same time. 

Missing has become a verb that gathers steam over the course of weeks and then drops like a hydrogen bomb over my heart.

Rest is that in between where I breathe more easily and life becomes bearable and life without her becomes bearable and I am not


Counting


Each 


Day


Until I see her again.


Rest is always welcome -- as is missing -- it offers some respite to the self-doubt. 


Rest.

Rest comes and I see the promise in all of its meaning and I'm overwhelmed with gratitude and sometimes I want to stay in that resting state. 

Sometimes.


It seems as if it could be a lovely space if I could just stay there for an extended period of time.... But if I stay resting I am never missing, and the passion of my emotion towards that tiny girl is just one part of the big puzzle that makes me who I am.


I value the rest in me. That part which can sit and watch my other children play without seeing a phantom girl running along with them. 

I value the fact that my restful state is the one which I most often find myself living in.







But giving up the whirlwind of missing would be like giving up the sun. The memory of her makes me shine brighter. 


In that state colors become brighter, scents become more pungent, and every touch crackles with electricity. 

This missing -- it's a gift. 

This resting -- it's a gift. 

Out of its proper proportion, either one would sink me.



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