To be ignorant
of what occurred before you were born
is to remain
always a child.
~ Cicero
To be ignorant
of what occurred before you were born
is to remain
always a child.
~ Cicero
 Once
upon a time, in a land by the ocean,
there lived a fair lady. So exquisite was she that everyone who saw
her was captivated by her radiance. Eyes of the darkest night sky,
long chestnut hair that glistened in the sun, and a smile that offered
joy to everyone she encountered.
Truly, there was but one thing more beautiful, for the lady posessed a voice like no other, a voice to bring tears, a voice to bring passion, a voice to bring love. And when she sang, even the songbirds of the forest bowed their heads. |
| Twenty nine years ago, in a small dusty roadside town, there lived
a young woman. Slender and quietly pretty, her sad smile revealed
the reality of a life misstepped, and the wistful longing of a dream out
of reach.
Truly, she knew the toils of work...daily cleaning, working long hours at a local inn, working, straining, in the hopes of someday having her young daughter at her side once again, in the hopes of someday being able to forgive herself for the shame she had brought to her family. |
| One evening as she strolled along the seashore,
from the distance a figure approached on horseback... somewhat afraid,
yet oddly drawn to him she watched as he rode nearer. He came to
her...a stranger, with a soft smile and a kind voice, bidding her to join
him so that they might dance and sing together for a time, so that they
might, in their sharing grow to know, and to care.
She watched as he held out his hand for her, this tall gentle man with the shy smile, and because she could see a future of warmth and tenderness in his eyes, she went. |
| On a sticky, stifling hot July night..she wandered through the maze
of people at the night club in the hotel... aimlessly scanning faces.
He came to her...a stranger, nameless and alone, seeking sanctuary, longing
for touch.
And because she was lonely, because having someone, anyone to hold on to, even if only for one night, was better than facing the darkness and the dreams alone, she went. |
| And on that night, as the soft stars shimmered
an ethereal caress they lay together, wrapped in each other's arms...holding
on to the newfound passion, discovering the surrender that only a lover's
touch can inspire. Gentle fingers gliding, lips taste the warmth
of skin, the heat of desire....the stillness of the darkness broken by
the sweet aching cries of pleasure, the slow shivering swell of the rapture.
She awoke cradled in his arms as a child, quietly weeping, senses so filled with serenity. Yet, when she turned to him, the desolate pain in his eyes brought a different kind of tears, and she knew, even as he held her...he would not stay. Wrapped in the frigid warmth of the blaket they had shared, she watched him walk away... feeling only the solitude as her soul screamed in silent agony. |
| That night, as they walked away from the crowds, into the forest,
the stars like bulletholes forced through paper-thin blackness, his hands
reached for her. And even as she invited his touch...her body, her
mind refused.. ran.... trying to outrun the pain and the shame of her need,
and the weakness of her surrender. Gasping, screaming for breath, rough
hands grab, push, tear cloth and dignity, mouth hot and fetid, taking...the
dead heat of the night broken by ragged, muffled sobs...
She lay, huddled into herself, ...quietly weeping, senses dead and cold as the damp ground underneath. Acceptance of desolate certainty that she deserved this pain... and as the emptiness caressed her...she welcomed it like a lover... letting it fill her, till all that existed...was nothing. Wrapped in the grimy tatters of her clothes, unseeing, uncaring, she heard him stumble away...feeling only the blackness as her screams vanished silently into the night. |
| Empty days passed into weeks...and without knowing,
she knew. Hand pressed flat against her belly... touching the life
that now grew there. A priceless gift of light and love... the child
who would be theirs... no, not theirs, hers.... alone.
Late in the evening she would sit, gently rocking, eyes closed, and sing...such sweet melodies, enchanting lullabies that made her heart ache. Watching from her window as the green of summer turned to firey orange to shimmering white... waiting by her window as time grew shorter, nights grew longer. And amid the promise of hope and life... as the winter bowed before the spring of rebirth, the confused cry of the child filled the air... Sheltering the child in her sorrow... imprisioning this person in her solitude... the realization of what must be... |
| Numbed from the days that slipped by unnoticed, her sickness the
proof of what she tried to deny, forget. Fingers clutched tight
to her stomach, wishing away this living remembrance, hating herself for
wishing.
Late sleepless nights, she would walk... mind aching, thoughts hurled like stones, through stained glass reality, shattered and jagged. Fragments of lost hopes and dreams piercing her frozen reverie. There would be no forgiveness this time, no cleansing. And as the agony of the child gripped her body...she embraced it...small penance for the guilt and shame. Sheltering the child in her arms... sheltering this perfect innocence in her arms, she wept with the understanding of what she must do... |
| They came, these strangers with their caring patronizing
accusing faces... and into their hands she placed her baby, relinquished
her faith, surrendered.
...for the love of the child who would never remember. |
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