pinky promise

Rocked.  Swayed.  


Stirred.

Tired, leaden feet, approaching a crossroads.

Symmetry.  An end, mirroring the beginning.

Gracious tying of loose ends.

There is a hunger.  An ache behind my eyes and pulling at the corners of my mouth.

Empty arms, bare finger.

Not the waiting.  But the hoping.  Wearing heavy on my shoulders.

Yearn to trade yokes.

For a dramatic, deep change in plot.

Like my small one, I lean forward, extending my pinky.

Promise?

Imploring eyes.  Just promise.

Beauty sought, protection found.

My weary self aches to lean back into You.

Afraid of regression.

Afraid of lonely steps forward.

Breath is hard for my lungs to find.

Tears, five months of them still unshed.

Our bodies mourn for us when our hearts are too weak to grieve.

Crave safety.  Shadow, in it I cower.

Hide.  I'm tempted.  To kneel and cover my head against the onslaught.

Out of sight.  Withdrawn.

Or to once again be in the security of a fortress.  To see the army with my own eyes.  Ward off flaming arrows and sly words.

Wind tousles.

Move me.

Get me to that place.  Deliver me there.

To where Your Glory dwells.

The begging of my spirit.  The unveiling.

I see the scales at my feet, fallen.

New eyes avoid direct contact.  The wounds are fresh.  I do not recognize myself.

Wind rocks me.  I sway.

And then there it is.  The paradox of growth.  A foundation, strong and solid.  Truth is this: I am not lost.  In the reflection I see the green.  Vibrant.  Striking.

Familiar.

But stronger.  In those many broken places.  Weathered.  Conditioned.  Arms out, chin back, eyes closed.

I am enveloped.

Apprehensive.  Unsure.  Bold.

Upon the foundation, despite all the rubble, a fighter has been built.  Out of the very ashes.

Over strengthened shoulders I take one more look at from where it was I came.

Breathe.

Desire propels.

I pause.  Implore.  Extend my pinky finger.

Promise?