My grandmother came to America in a pickle barrel, my mother acted like she lived in one and I'm still trying to wash off the smell. Slosh, Slosh, Slosh, goes the smelly water. It’s dark and dirty in the pickle lagoon of marshy waters. Green, damp, sticky, smelly liquid swooshes around my ankles, into my belly button, up my nostrils.
Someone save me from drowning. Save me from myself. For, I have become the monster in the green lagoon. I will jump out and grab you by the soul, wash you away into a sewer of dark green garbage. We will go down together.
A hand is gripping the edges of my heart, tearing my muscles to shreds, ripping my skin off my body. This feeling, this emptiness, this pain is my legacy. It is grandma Sarah’s gift. Her legacy to me. My dowry from her Russian—Polish clan. Will the ache ever go away?
To hide within is my only way out. Quick, I will run into the forest, melt into the greenness, wallow in the cool darkness where no one will find me. Deeper and deeper I will run, deep into the blackness where there is no sound, no wind, no voices, no visions. Just dark, black, nothingness.
“Is anybody there? Is anybody there?”
"I'm here."
"Who are you?"
"Nothingness."
"What do you look like?"
"I am whatever you want me to be. Enter me."
“I'm afraid. I need someone to hold me."
"I will hold you. My darkness is soothing."
"Will I die?"
"You will shed your masks and be born again."
"Is this true?"
"At the end of every dark nothingness is light."
"Is it the only way out?"
Do any of us dare to enter into the shadow, the place where we have buried our bones?
Come with me.
No comments:
Post a Comment