She had a knack for burying things; in the secret recess of her mind. She didn’t wait for the wounds to fester, didn’t want to see the scab that was sure to leave an ugly scar, even though she knew it would eventually fade with time. She didn’t want to feel the itch as it slowly began to heal, forcing her to acknowledge each time she scratched. She didn’t want to be reminded at all, so she buried them deep, where she thought no one could ever find them. Hiding them she believed, from even herself.
Then along her path came a healer, having already glimpsed into her soul; for once they had stood toe-to-toe, in that long narrow hall leading to nowhere. He had a way of touching her, opening every wound, introducing her to catharsis, a word she soon came to loathe. Not because the outcome was undesirable in any way, but because the pain, which at times could be excruciating, she once again was forced to face; in reaching that point of purification, through unfettered emotional release. With the one who knows, maybe always knew and willingly absorbed as much pain as he could, just so she no longer suffered alone.
©2010 by Jill Terry