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Sunday, July 28, 2013

Go Back

I need to go back and tell her.  I need to tell her that the first time she holds him and feels that her family is "complete" is exactly the moment that will be her coffin when he's no longer there.  I need to tell her that all the times she buries her face in his soft neck are precisely what will bring her to her knees on a daily basis once that neck has been kissed for the last time.  She needs to know that the first time he gets really sick will seem like a skinned knee compared to the anguish and unknown of what is coming.  Somehow I've got to tell her that coming home from the hospital after that initial illness doesn't mean that she's "won" anything.  I have to go back in time and have the conversation that lets her know that no matter how many parts of her die, no matter how hard she "fights", no matter how many pieces of her life that she gives up along the way, she cannot make him stay. There has to be a way for me to warn her about those memories she thinks she's making.  I need to tell her that the happy times full of smiles and laughter will eventually become razorblades.  That they'll know exactly when and how deep to cut in order to leave her a gaping sieve of pain, but not enough to completely end it. They'll tear at her flesh until there is nothing left but a shell, and she'll be expected to be ok with living in that shell.  She'll be expected to want to wake up another day, only to be cut again and again.

She looks so happy right now, but I know what awaits her.  Shouldn't I be able to warn her?  Shouldn't I be the one to tell her that what's coming will leave her a dead woman among the living?  But, I can't.  It isn't possible for her to know what lies ahead.  No one will tell her.  No one will turn her face away from that soft neck for fear of the future pain.  She'll bury her face in it again and again and drink in his beautiful scent, all the time assuming that she can always come back for more.  When he gets sick she'll push and push and let herself die so that he might live.  She'll forget her friends and her family.  She'll ignore her own needs, and all for nothing.  For now, my inability to give her that information is her gift.  The gift of ignorance.  And although I may be wiser to what's in store, although I may know something that she doesn't, I'm grateful for her innocence. I'm grateful for my inability to crush her.  That will come soon enough, and when it does it isn't the presence of the biting razorblade memories that will be her end, it's the absence of that sweetest scent that will mortally wound her soul.


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