Sighs

She could not have been any better, more thoughtful, more helpful, prettier, smarter; she was bound in thoughts of disappointed sighs, disregarded achievements, broken in shreds of compromise, lonely in her discontent. It would never be enough, that is, to just be herself. She would not be rewarded with smiles, praise or unconditional love; she would know the bareness of love over and over again. Yet she kept wanting the comfort of the womb, the strong arms, the reassurance in their voices, the "it's okays", and the "of course you cans!"

To be heard, seen, first, their world, would lie at the pit of her stomach, embed into the wrinkles in her forehead, the never and the needed always butting heads. Of course she'd made mistakes, had her own thoughts and dreams; for isn't this how we are to be? Imperfect, yet wanted even so? She would rebel from the verbal abuse, the slaps and pinches, the belts and meanness; she'd run into the first arms that would assure her that she was all the things she needed to hear, she would be someone's everything, and they too, would break her. She would go back for more, again and again because her need to be safe, loved, first, would cloud her judgement, cause her to lose sight of her own heart and tears would become all she knew day after day, week into months until she would run as far as the heartache would carry her, only to land in the same place she had always been. Insecure, awkward, lost so deep within her spirit, nothing could reach her. Noone could be trusted. She would brood and stay in her safehouse, a place she built in the depths of her own being that nobody, no thing, ever, could enter nor hurt her. And there she would stay. Her heart would sometimes rise, wanting to believe in something good, yet fleeing became her only recourse.

It seemed like it was just one day, the facts are it had been many, perhaps years, but in her mind it was like a sunrise; her eyes opened and she began to see love in others, not the ones she came from, but the ones that would become her teachers. They did not know they were her guides, nor did she. So, on this day, let's say, she saw a mother who loved her daughters and they were not perfect in any way. She saw the mother's love, welcoming them, laughing with them, teaching them that love was quite simple. It was then she knew she deserved it, too. That if she could not have it, she would give it to someone who needed it and was worthy.

Years passed and a baby was born; the baby was shining with love and she showered the baby with all she could give. It would be hard to watch their bumps and falls, their hurts, anguish, disappointments, failures, and pain. Yet, it would always be easy to show her love, for it was real, without constraints. As her own body began to age, her wishes faded into acceptance; she would ride on the wings of her own love and never hold back when she could give. Her child would grow up, have her own thoughts, rebel and she would carry on, grateful to hold their proverbial hand to her heart, listen until the sun set and find laughter in their love.