She sits on a wooden chair, stripped and scratched from years of witnessing lives changing,and she looks up from her cup of coffee, staring at the wall behind me, never into my eyes, and she asks me “what difference does it make?”
I get a grip of my knees, my nails grasping at my skin and I feel my heart pounce with legitimate ache. I can’t breathe from all the weight she shoves down my throat. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake the indifference out of her being! Tug at her strings and slash them! Beg her to just let herself feel everything she was never allowed to believe in!
I want to take her by the wrists and show her that the fact that she doesn’t have scars doesn’t mean that she’s not bleeding! I want her to know that what she feels is justified and real. Real enough for her to flip colors all over the bedroom wall and paint it with all the frustration that she cannot make sense of! I need her to know that it’s OK! That it’s OK! That it’s really, truly OK! I need her to know that life is about pain and loss and sadness and all the light that comes after the fog! I need her to feel, fully and intensely, so that it’s alright for me to walk down the street with sparkling eyes and an avid soul…
I… I look at her with a broken smile and I tell her that it makes no difference at all.