Recalling was laborious, how confusion and time became friends. By this friendship, a strangling of a seven years marriage occurred from a noose knotted by a deceptive hand holding a black ink pen.
On Monday the divorce papers arrived in a manila envelope by hand of a gray eyed mail carrier with purple shoes. When she opened the door she first noticed the carrier’s eyes, then her shoes, then a school of black birds flying above the house across the street.
“Thank you.“ Gayle said closing the door. She looked on the package as an evil only because the significance not because of its presence. The package wasn’t the actual evil, for those papers hadn’t strength to transgress. The transgressor (to Gayle) was the owner of the signature sleeping faithfully above the line which said "petitioner."
I’m his wife. Did everything necessary to provide what he needed. And that she did. For the example was plentiful. Her father never scream and mother held the eyes unrolled. Indeed, her childhood home had structure of both daddy and mommy; present and aware. With this and being witnessed to no peaceless confrontation by her example, the manila envelope was an foreigner unwanted. The migration of which gained citizenship of her reality without the benefit of a green card.
Now, he faked happiness (the transgressor/petitioner that is), then phoned on her lunch break a week prior.
"I think we should separate,” he said with no emotion. She moaned pleases into the phone but before her acceptance arrived, silence lingered; he’d ended the call. Inhaling, placing the phone in its rightful place, she laid both hands on the surface of her desk seeking balance and waited to exhale. By strength of her own two feet she’d found that balance and stood upward. But the equilibrium of what life became in that instant held no foundation and she felt a falling in her chest while standing, posture driven and six months pregnant.
Hearing a faint commotion, her manager came from the office, eyes concerned. “Are you ok, Gayle?“
“No,“ she said. “Can’t say that I am.“
“Take the rest of the day off?“
“I may need a little longer.“
“Take as long as you need.“
She went home, put on her bathrobe, had a seat in the reclining chair in the living room and sat seven days. She moved only to cry until the arrival of the gray eyed and purple shoed messenger. Gayle grabbed the envelope, closed the door, sat back in the reclining chair and clutched the package with both hands. The television was not on though she stared at its screen. Listening to the home’s closed lips and dried emptiness, the crying came endlessly and without remorse. Balance, at this point, was no longer a standing issue but a constant one, premised only to the heaviness of thought. Within the week of the phone call she ate sparingly while sleep was longed for but rarely accomplished. The only accomplishment was her place in the reclining chair where she and the television screen made powerless small talk. But this day, while she sat with envelope in hand, while she sat tearful and unfocused, a heat broke famine on the landscape of her inner-valley; a place where consideration was never considered; a place she reckoned hadn’t needed nourishment. And like a climatic scene in cinematic thrillers the wind blew outdoors, enough for her grief to adjourn if only momentarily. Then, and only then, did she realize movement in the world.
Opening the nearest window slowly, she pushed the window screen until a snapping kicked it out of place. The screen, bent and broken, fell on to the dried lilies beneath the window. With no warning the wind built power and unloosened the knot binding her bathrobe around her waist exposing her mounting belly. She stood before the window while September’s wind pulled her ungrounded hair over her shoulders and eyed the body of the wind as it massaged the curtains. But perhaps it was the difference of it all; the fact she indulged in nothing more than her grief; maybe God spoke in the pushing of her hair, her loosened robe, her waltzing curtains. But as if the wind carried some fashion of joy, this movement brought a slow and brief smile. But as quickly as the wind arrived, it departed and the curtains grew still. She tied the bathrobe snug about her waist beneath her belly, put her smile away and sat in the reclining chair still grieving but grieving differently.
Five minutes passed since the wind's arrival when she heard a whistle outside the window. The sound seemed miles away. Further maybe, but a plentiful whistle jumping and ducking in melody then stopping. Quickly, she threw her curiosity towards the window but didn’t move from the chair. A second whistle came causing her eyes lids to flutter. This whistle was closer, even more pleasant, even more pretty. Her eyes fluttered once again. Then a third whistle, which followed stronger, higher and more godly then the two that came before. Wasn’t until the whistles completed that she’d found the source. The blackest bird she’d ever seen landed on the window sill, whistled no more, just stood and yet her eyes fluttered.
It doesn’t have to move, she thought to herself looking at the blackest bird, there’s nothing to fear.
When this thought finished she grabbed her belly startled. The child inside danced, turned, move, shook and fell silent. It doesn’t have to move? she repeated in question, this time out-loud. All began to have newness. The grandfather clock behind her spoke in ticks and a smell of fresh scented cotton filled the home. While worrying about the future was constant in her life, the world remained consistent around her. Immediately she heard what she hadn’t realized before; a voice of reason.
Life stops for no one. The life inside of Gayle was in motion and around her the world was dancing. The only one, until that moment, who needed to partake in the dance was she, whom now permitted those feelings of rejection to live. Not in mind, but in the space within her which had power to bear it; her soul.
Feeling the grief was fine to her in that moment. So long as grief disturbed not the dance of life. But it took complete surrender, however. Sitting in that chair, listening and feeling life and regret until what she needed arrived. Forgiveness. She forgave the petitioner even though he wasn’t present to receive it. She signed the papers and laid them on the mantle above the fireplace that same day. And from the reclining chair to the days to come she let life move at will, only to become a willing participant in its dancing.
She saw the blackest bird every day for the four weeks following until she delivered a baby girl she named Raven. Once the divorce was final, she saw the blackest bird no more… and her eyes no longer fluttered...
On Monday the divorce papers arrived in a manila envelope by hand of a gray eyed mail carrier with purple shoes. When she opened the door she first noticed the carrier’s eyes, then her shoes, then a school of black birds flying above the house across the street.
“Thank you.“ Gayle said closing the door. She looked on the package as an evil only because the significance not because of its presence. The package wasn’t the actual evil, for those papers hadn’t strength to transgress. The transgressor (to Gayle) was the owner of the signature sleeping faithfully above the line which said "petitioner."
I’m his wife. Did everything necessary to provide what he needed. And that she did. For the example was plentiful. Her father never scream and mother held the eyes unrolled. Indeed, her childhood home had structure of both daddy and mommy; present and aware. With this and being witnessed to no peaceless confrontation by her example, the manila envelope was an foreigner unwanted. The migration of which gained citizenship of her reality without the benefit of a green card.
Now, he faked happiness (the transgressor/petitioner that is), then phoned on her lunch break a week prior.
"I think we should separate,” he said with no emotion. She moaned pleases into the phone but before her acceptance arrived, silence lingered; he’d ended the call. Inhaling, placing the phone in its rightful place, she laid both hands on the surface of her desk seeking balance and waited to exhale. By strength of her own two feet she’d found that balance and stood upward. But the equilibrium of what life became in that instant held no foundation and she felt a falling in her chest while standing, posture driven and six months pregnant.
Hearing a faint commotion, her manager came from the office, eyes concerned. “Are you ok, Gayle?“
“No,“ she said. “Can’t say that I am.“
“Take the rest of the day off?“
“I may need a little longer.“
“Take as long as you need.“
She went home, put on her bathrobe, had a seat in the reclining chair in the living room and sat seven days. She moved only to cry until the arrival of the gray eyed and purple shoed messenger. Gayle grabbed the envelope, closed the door, sat back in the reclining chair and clutched the package with both hands. The television was not on though she stared at its screen. Listening to the home’s closed lips and dried emptiness, the crying came endlessly and without remorse. Balance, at this point, was no longer a standing issue but a constant one, premised only to the heaviness of thought. Within the week of the phone call she ate sparingly while sleep was longed for but rarely accomplished. The only accomplishment was her place in the reclining chair where she and the television screen made powerless small talk. But this day, while she sat with envelope in hand, while she sat tearful and unfocused, a heat broke famine on the landscape of her inner-valley; a place where consideration was never considered; a place she reckoned hadn’t needed nourishment. And like a climatic scene in cinematic thrillers the wind blew outdoors, enough for her grief to adjourn if only momentarily. Then, and only then, did she realize movement in the world.
Opening the nearest window slowly, she pushed the window screen until a snapping kicked it out of place. The screen, bent and broken, fell on to the dried lilies beneath the window. With no warning the wind built power and unloosened the knot binding her bathrobe around her waist exposing her mounting belly. She stood before the window while September’s wind pulled her ungrounded hair over her shoulders and eyed the body of the wind as it massaged the curtains. But perhaps it was the difference of it all; the fact she indulged in nothing more than her grief; maybe God spoke in the pushing of her hair, her loosened robe, her waltzing curtains. But as if the wind carried some fashion of joy, this movement brought a slow and brief smile. But as quickly as the wind arrived, it departed and the curtains grew still. She tied the bathrobe snug about her waist beneath her belly, put her smile away and sat in the reclining chair still grieving but grieving differently.
Five minutes passed since the wind's arrival when she heard a whistle outside the window. The sound seemed miles away. Further maybe, but a plentiful whistle jumping and ducking in melody then stopping. Quickly, she threw her curiosity towards the window but didn’t move from the chair. A second whistle came causing her eyes lids to flutter. This whistle was closer, even more pleasant, even more pretty. Her eyes fluttered once again. Then a third whistle, which followed stronger, higher and more godly then the two that came before. Wasn’t until the whistles completed that she’d found the source. The blackest bird she’d ever seen landed on the window sill, whistled no more, just stood and yet her eyes fluttered.
It doesn’t have to move, she thought to herself looking at the blackest bird, there’s nothing to fear.
When this thought finished she grabbed her belly startled. The child inside danced, turned, move, shook and fell silent. It doesn’t have to move? she repeated in question, this time out-loud. All began to have newness. The grandfather clock behind her spoke in ticks and a smell of fresh scented cotton filled the home. While worrying about the future was constant in her life, the world remained consistent around her. Immediately she heard what she hadn’t realized before; a voice of reason.
Life stops for no one. The life inside of Gayle was in motion and around her the world was dancing. The only one, until that moment, who needed to partake in the dance was she, whom now permitted those feelings of rejection to live. Not in mind, but in the space within her which had power to bear it; her soul.
Feeling the grief was fine to her in that moment. So long as grief disturbed not the dance of life. But it took complete surrender, however. Sitting in that chair, listening and feeling life and regret until what she needed arrived. Forgiveness. She forgave the petitioner even though he wasn’t present to receive it. She signed the papers and laid them on the mantle above the fireplace that same day. And from the reclining chair to the days to come she let life move at will, only to become a willing participant in its dancing.
She saw the blackest bird every day for the four weeks following until she delivered a baby girl she named Raven. Once the divorce was final, she saw the blackest bird no more… and her eyes no longer fluttered...
