Today’s prompt: For today’s writing, can you imagine yourself in the fairytale? Are you the old wise person who brings an uncomfortable gift? How do the people around you see you? Are they afraid, superstitious, uncomfortable?
Well this is awkward. Here I am, The Old Wise Woman, and no invitation to the party. Good thing I’m traveling with Tonya these days.
I can hear your whispers of, “What is she doing here? She does not belong. Tonya should know better.” I may be old–as old as death–but I hear your whispers as you turn your shoulders in protection. Maybe if we don’t make eye contact, I’ll stay away. Do you think that’s how it works? Ridiculous. You’re afraid of the ephemeral me and the nervous draft I send your way. You think that’s scary? You should feel me. I’m an emotional bowling ball. I’m here. I’m real. Those facts don’t depend on you partygoers acknowledging me. Look away if you must. After all, Tonya should know better than to bring the 13th guest, the uninvited, to our gathering. Right?
Oh, my pretties, Tonya does know better, she just can’t help it. She can’t shake me. She tried. You know what happened when she tried to leave me behind? I dug in. I’m not going anywhere, and Tonya’s starting to understand. We are coming to terms, Tonya and I. I’ve settled in, down deep, and I’m here to stay. You can see me in her eyes even if you can’t hear me in her voice. You don’t have to look at me to see me. Look at her. Are you afraid? She’s not contagious. Losing a child is not contagious. Losing a child to suicide is not contagious.
Look. At. Her.
There. You see it now, don’t you? Her eyes can’t smile. I did that to her. I broke her eyes. Her mouth can smile, sort of. Once in a while she can even crank out a laugh-ish grunt. Her smart mouth can make jokes again. That’s for your benefit, mainly. She doesn’t care. But look at her, and you’ll see me. I’m there. I don’t show on the scales, but my weight is real. She feels it; watch her slog through the days, dragging me with each step. She knows I’m here; she feels me in her chest, in her gut, somehow crushing and filling at the same time. Yes, I’ve settled in. Down deep. We are coming to terms.
It bothers you that she cries, doesn’t it? Me again. I did that to her. She has to cry. I brought her a sadness unbearable without tears. What you may not have noticed, though, is that she cries and then gets on with it. I did that to her, too. That’s strength. A strength perhaps foreign to you, but that’s strength. As I’ve said, we are coming to terms.
Tonya and I met a few times before August 2020. Brief interactions. Practice runs, if you will. Those were warm-ups for the grandparents, and she did okay with the grandparents. Not great, but okay. I didn’t have to stay. Oh, I was here for a while. She mourned them, but she could get her head around it being their time. She connected with them, maybe helped ease their way. I didn’t need to move in; her heart healed with every loss before Cooper.
But Cooper. Her son. This loss is different. His death cleaved away a chunk of her heart and now I’m here to stay. The heart doesn’t heal from something like this, so I’m a space holder until they reunite. You’ll need to adjust, because my girl Tonya and I are inseparable. She’s different with me around. She’s aware. Not so fun, but come on–what did you expect? She’s stronger now, in invisible ways. I’ve taken away her fear. Well, I took it away by putting her through her worst nightmare, but the fear is gone. Her empathy is top notch. I’m helping her see what matters. Life hack–it’s not the things that matter, it’s the people. I’m good with clarity that way.
Until we meet again,
The Old Wise Woman
Woods Writes 