The short conversation with a client who understands my own life all too well stirred an unsettled feeling which still churns in my gut half a day later.  Sleep overtook me like a heavy cloud of ash, surrounding me with its wicked embrace and drawing me into heavy dreams.  Thankfully the ghostly faces which crowded my helpless form vanished with the rising sun though their putrid scent lingers.

But I feel the watchful eyes of other beings — hands which stayed the fury, a body which stood between me and all that rage.  My older self, the woman that the frightened child became, invites those kinder souls to comfort me.  I stand on my back porch, as I do most mornings, watching the light  break across the eastern sky.  I tell myself, You’ve come this far, and nod my head.

No one who did not spend their childhood immersed in fear can understand how hard some of us struggle to let go of the constant battle to overcome the terror.  Others traveled through their early years in the same war zone but live seemingly unaffected by the sound of thunder.    None of us live inside the skins of our sisters.  We all just carry on, hoping that the guiding angels  will not forsake us.  Because of them, I have not surrendered to the crippling fright.

It’s the twentieth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues, and I continue with it.

Dedicated to S. and her sons and daughters, especially H. and G.

 With love and empathy.