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Making
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Issue
Ten: Free Write
Scintillations
The Beach
Remembering
You
Julie Day
Current Events
Sex And The Country
Stirring Up The Dust
Letter to My Younger Self
More
Letters To
Younger Selves
Moody Girl
Photography
Cover:
Box of Skeletons
Hello
Pipe
Hive
Clouds
Pegasus
In Ireland
Subway
Guy
Poetry
Spring
A
Lesson In Wholeness
A
Child's Light
The
House That He Built
Summer
Night
Contributors
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Play With Your Words
Making
Friends With Money
Future Issues
Issue Eleven: Play
Issue Twelve: Synchronicity
A Lesson In
Wholeness
Erica Staab
Her
weary face caught my eye from across the street
the lines of her face were etched deeply,
each wrinkle showing a different point in time… a different
tale.
What a story she held within.
Her clothes were ragged and hung from her limply
while her
small callused hands
deftly sorted through the garbage.
She survived by what others dismissed.
A pair of glowing newlyweds walked by, clinging closely to one
another,
careful not to let her loneliness touch them
trying desperately to separate themselves
to make her an object, something to be discarded.
It was a sharp feeling, one that went straight to the heart.
There was an unmistakable sense of coldness, of despair, of
wonder…
dancing in the space between the young and old,
the unanswered questions that we are so quick dodge and avoid.
I have been that couple, that is something hard to watch, even
harder to admit.
It is not easy to sit with the questions of the heart that are
unanswered.
The guilt sets in, and I wonder -- why not me?
The disparity between her life and mine
seems to hang heavily
in the cold winter air
I pull my coat closer to my skin,
the coldness of the moment coming too close for comfort.
The couple passes and looks to me for validation, for the
release of their guilt,
for the acknowledgement that it is Us vs. Them as they have
been taught.
I look to the crack in the sidewalk,
the place where the persistent weeds push their way through,
vying for the small space between.
I am unable to meet their eyes.
Now it is my turn, I walk past and look toward her eyes
searching for answers
not knowing exactly what the questions are.
As she meets my gaze there is a silence
and a communication that no words could do justice to,
an understanding of the soul
beneath the wrinkled skin and
washed out appearance.
She smiles, her eyes clear and blue, cutting through the cold,
looking for the soul beneath my skin, for the warmth of
another human soul,
searching for the understanding that we are both human
in
spite of our outer coverings.
Her look of appreciation for me acknowledging her
drives through me
and takes my breath away.
It is as though she could read what is written on my heart
She searches my eyes for honesty and I understand.
We are not that different.
©2003 Erica Staab
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