2004-12-07
Even If I Won't Be Heard...

I curl up on the wrong end of my bed, thrust my goosebumped bare arms under the warm blankets, and twist into a ball to shield myself from the cold in my basement room. As soon as I am well settled, my kitten notices what a comfortable position I am in. He leaps onto my bed and neatly fits himself into the half circle made by my curved frame. He purrs and I smile as I begin to stroke him gently while he falls asleep. I almost close my eyes to join him in slumber, but on second thought, decide that the back pain would be too severe in the morning from sleeping in such an awkward, scrunched position. I blink my eyes back open and I begin to think.

I begin to think about all the questions I leave unasked. I think about all the quiet comments and inquiries I utter softly to my fingers on the keyboard, instead of typing them. And so I begin to ask them.

And I am speaking quietly out loud. I am having a conversation. Not with myself, but a person I imagined was there with me. Not an imaginary person either. A real person. I ask everything I am usually afraid to utter. And slowly, it becomes more than petty questions. And I am explaining so much.

With my arm curled under the covers to keep warm and supporting my head and neck, I stare down at my legs, pretending I am chastily avoiding an eye nearby. I am pouring out my little heart and soul as I trace the broken lines on my striped pajama pants.

And I begin to cry. The tears roll down my cheeks and sit on my white elbow as my heart overflows. I am quick to explain that it wasn't pain which made me cry. Somehow, I felt no pain. Then what was it? Longing I suppose. (As I think upon it now, I can only describe it inadequately. Melancholy, beautiful, wringing, gentle, painless yet sore and slightly aching. But that hardly fits. It was nothing new. It was simply only the first time I really thought about it, and realized that I felt something which I could not compare to anything else I had read of or heard of or felt. I don't think there's a word in any dictionary or any language for it.)

But I do not dwell on feeling. The words still flow freely from my lips until my kitten is so disturbed by my quiet soliloquy that he stands up, arches his back, and gracefully thumps to the floor where he stretches out in sleep again. I still talk though. And cry. My tears turn to the tears of shame and inadequacy. But as I progress in my explanation, an epihpany dawns upon me which silences my crying for a moment as I reflect. I finish and I begin to talk again. My hushed tears begin again, but this time they are passionate gratitude. I reach the quiet climax of emotion, and crying my last tears, I sit up, blow my nose, and stare off into the distance.

Finally in silence.

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