Monday, June 21, 2010

paralyzed

I was twenty years old when I saw my first dying man.
He was hunched over, in the fetal position, on his bed at the nursing home.
His fingers were knotted and wrinkled, much like my own.
The sound of his slow and heavy breath,
like the waves hitting the shore after a thunderstorm,
haunted my dreams.
Breathing like someone told him the rhythm would launch him to God-
He yearned to burst of his body.

I could relate.

Because, I swear, every time I hear your voice I die.
and the only feasible cure
is to sever my soul out from it's cell.
to slice my skin from ankle to thigh,
from wrist to torso,
like the time I butchered a bison in South Dakota.
I'd peel back my ribs and hold my breath
because I've never seen anything so close to reprieve before.

and I imagined the sky breaking away from the stars,
and my soul floating back into the Womb.
and they say, in heaven, there is no pain.
your heart mended, and your skeleton reset.

It's hard to imagine
from the bed in your nursing home.
Yearning to hear your mothers voice,
and to feel your wife's breath on your neck.
wanting to be able to sit up and take a drink from your cup
without someone you barely know putting the straw to your lips.
Craving to skip rocks across the Atlantic ocean
and to see what Utah looks like from the top of a mountain.

I think all I know is pain.
I think, every year, I'm afraid the trees wont replenish in the spring

what if someone told you, you could never sing?

and I imagine him,
soul cut free,
standing at the shore of the sea,
chest expanding with salty air.
His arms stretched out,
like it was the first time he'd ever seen the ocean.
He can't think of anything more perfect.

I prayed that night I'd see him in heaven.
That God would hear his rhythmic breathing.
That the angels in heaven breathed that rhythm with him,
welcoming him home.

Ever since I was little, I imagined Jesus to be the face on the moon.
And I hoped so hard my lungs burst that he could see Jesus, too.
out the tiny window in his room at the nursing home.
That the illumination would at least make his heart warm.

and there was so much hope that night,
that for a moment,
I swore we were both already in hell.

But, I like to think every time God says, "well done my good and faithful servant."
He gets so excited he forgets to breathe.
that His heart swells so big, sunsets couldn't even compare.

and I hope he's there.

1 comment:

  1. your writing is like fresh air for my soul.
    our friendship is like refreshing water for a thirst im not even sure i was aware that i had.

    you are loved.
    -lindsay

    ReplyDelete