Backwards, a leap, walk in circles...as long as my heart is pumping life and my soul feels emotion, I should move. And I suppose that I am, unwillingly so for the most part, but I am.
You're familiar with the centuries-old Christopher Columbus story which states that people were afraid that the world was flat-edged and they'd fall off if the end were discovered? When my brother passed away, I felt that way for at least the first year and change; afraid of the end of the day in fear that life around me would fall off and I'd stay in place. Or I'd get to the end of a night as I watched the sun fold into the sky and the moon glow against the dark and wonder if this day was my end and I'd fall away just like my brother did. One day he was here and the next he wasn't. A year and eight months have passed and his belongings are here, all tangible, and yet he's still intangible. As much as I know no one can come back from death and no one can negotiate a return, my soul years for a miracle that will never happen.
I've begun to meet new people who don't know my past or my inner-present. Who look at me and speak to me with fresh words and newness inquiries. They are meeting the new me, the "she seems normal" me, the woman with a thousand truths and average-sized thoughts, the child who is vulnerable, do-eyed, green with loss and colored two shades of mystery.
"Do you have any siblings?"
Yes. "A big brother and a younger sister".
"Are you and your brother close?"
Yes. "Very". I fight the urge to tear up and my lip trembles and my breath gets short and I change the subject. I fear the fall of falling fast, divulging too much, entrusting my emotions to a stranger and being pitied. If you aren't a part of my when-Charley-was-here life, then you get no access to it. Period.
