I didn’t even see the purple sky in the distance. I couldn’t see the yellow silhouette behind the clouds as they rolled in. I ignored the warm, August wind, as it whipped my hair around my face. I couldn’t smell the sweet scent of drastic change in the air. I didn’t notice, how the smell lingered; then dropped into the pit of my stomach like a cinder block in a puddle.
He came so fast, like a tornado in my sky. The next thing I knew he was on the horizon. I watched him come with awe and fear; seeing the beauty in the madness. I longed to reach into that funnel and pull out the string of beauty that could unravel the destructive cloud; which left only devastation in its wake.
So I didn’t run–I didn’t even try to hold on to the roots of a tree.I didn’t try to stay grounded. No, I ran towards him, arms held out to my side, heart ready to be destroyed. And He swept me up.
Suddenly there was no light. Satin-like darkness was all around me. He even stole my breath. My limbs pulled away from me in the Chaos, threatening to be ripped off. But he placed that string of beauty right in my palm. So, with an iron grip, I held on for dear life and I followed it’s trail like a bow on a kite string. He carried me on the whim of his crises.
Then–I saw a glimpse of light.
I was sucked in towards it and the next thing I knew I was suspended in open, clear air. There was nothing but stillness and silence: The eye of the storm. I looked up, and there was only blue sky above. Only peace. Only the sound of a bird flying by, singing it’s song of innocence.
A small whimper cut through the silence–and my eyes followed the sound.
There he was. A boy, not yet seven years old. He had bruises around his throat and a scabbed-over knife wound in his back. He was curled up in a ball hanging in the center of the storm. In the center of the chaos. Tears fell down his face. His dirty blonde, colicky, little boy hair was matted down on his forehead, where beads of sweat formed.
I reached out. Gently. As if approaching a sleeping bear, or a hummingbird with a broken wing. I touched his shoulder.
He looked at me.
Then I saw the movie reel of pain: I saw his father hold him by the throat against the wall. I saw his mother, drugged out and swaying, her hand on a butcher knife. She glanced around for him, and I saw him desperately trying to find somewhere to hide. I heard him breathing heavily in the darkness of a cupboard, wondering if she’d find his hiding place.
Suddenly I realized, that his name is not Chaos. But rather,
His name is Love.
I came back to myself and cupped his face with my hands. Like the mother I have yet to become. Like the child, he has never been allowed to be.
And in a whisper,
“You. See. Me.”
Next thing I knew, I woke up on the ground. My body was broken into a million pieces, and all that told of his existence was the brokenness he left in his path. He left as quickly, as inexplicably, as he came.