I rummage through layers of tablecloths and sheets, guarding the oak and redwood furniture. Beyond the piano, its keys now silent, I step into the open space. The ground, adorned with stray branches, tugs at my ankles until I stumble. I hop forward, seeking stability, and catch myself with a nearby tree trunk. After freeing myself, I continue onward, venturing deeper into the thicket. My bare legs bear fresh wounds, small stings, and cuts, and I press forward. Deeper still. I walk alone, compelled. I wish for the strength to topple these deeply rooted hardwood trees with a push, to feel that momentary surge of power, a release from the weight of my failures.
I approach a denser thicket to a narrowing space. Using my shoulder as a shield I push forward, my hair catches, I misstep, and am ensnared between rock and root. “I’ve got you,” they taunt all while the heated lava bubbles take flight within. Every fiber of my being resists moving forward, yet I persist. In my mind’s eye, I see myself on the ground, cradling my head, tears flowing freely. I watch this mental image envelop me and then continue deeper into the thicket.
I wonder about my machete, where is it? Why doesn’t anyone seem to care? I push through the tangle of limbs, needles, and bark, each mark on my body a testament to the self-inflicted abuse. When they ask me what happened, I’ll say it was just a walk. But deep down, they’ll know. They’re not naive; I’m a work in progress, never truly done.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 