Silver Slivers

How brightly you shine, how radiantly you glow. You have changed so much since we first met five years ago. I still remember that day as clearly as if it were yesterday. In those days you carried yourself differently, reminding me of a world-worn dog that you see in shelters or inside of chicken-wired fencing. The kind that stare into oblivion as you approach it, but by the time you hear the low rumbling that was actually its growling, the poor thing was already baring its fangs at you, ready to maul whoever dared offer it a hand, comforting or otherwise.

One of the hardest parts is the approaching. You crouch low on the ground, and even when it snaps at you, you pass it off with a smile and a comforting word, and inch by inch, you edge your hand forward. Sometimes it will let you touch it. So you pet slowly, trying to let it know that you only mean the best, that you care. But the slightest movement out of pattern from you or the environment will snap its mind like a stretched rubber band and leave you with a bloodied finger.

That was what you were like in those days. Everything you did, all the words you said, they were all like geodes, so rough on the outside that it hurt to the touch, but I knew that there was something beautiful underneath.

Do you know what I speak of? You put up with it, until your arms and your legs and your body and your heart are striped red and raw. And though it hurts, you can't really stop, because you learned at some point that those who are hardest to love are maybe those who need it most. So you keep hugging that cold, hard stone, hoping that if you hold it tightly enough maybe one day you can get it to crack, and you'll find the crystal within and see that it was all worth it.

But that's the funny thing about the universe and the great irony of it all. Have you ever wanted something so badly that it eludes your grasp? Because once that geode does crack, it truly was beautiful on the inside. It glistens in the sun, more precious, more graceful, more magnificent a heart than anything you'd ever seen before. Maybe the effort and time you put into it made it appear that way. Time. Time is the great friend, but also the great enemy. The great tragedy of transformation is that just because someone changes for the better doesn't mean that the hurts they gave you over time magically disappear. And one day as you're watching that crystal glitter and thrive in the sun, you notice a glimmering on yourself, so you look down and feel very sad. You are both shining, but differently. One is a crystal, a brightly blooming blossom. One is a canvas of hurts come and gone, hands striped with shiny silver slivers.

You would think if a scar is reopened, it shouldn't hurt as greatly as the time it was first made. After all, the skin underneath is numb to the touch. But you're shocked to discover that it hurts twice, thrice over, and you think to yourself, "Strange, I should be used to this. Why does it hurt even more?" And each time the wound is opened anew, it becomes harder to bear. So you bandage yourself up acting like all is well, but you're left within as darkness dims your sight and thick clouds coat your mind.

And you're reminded of all those nights when you were younger, quivering with your knees against your chest, leaning back into the corner of your room where two walls meet because that was the closest thing to an embrace you knew, when your existence was your primary and greatest sin. Exhausted by all the roughness and scraping against your family. And when the whole house is dark and everything's silent but for the occasional car zooming by or the echo of an owl hooting in a tree or barn far away, that's when you knew the most profound peace of mind, for you thought that being alone was best. But it wasn't all bad, you see. Some days were bright, some just lukewarm, others drab and boring. But you just get used to running up and down hills while fleeing from the storm of hidden rage that seems to be watching your every move, all the while never cognizant of what you're doing. But what you're used to is all you know, so you go through your days very weary, believing that the constant ups and downs are perfectly ordinary. Sometimes you may fall in love, never realizing that all you are ever seeing are pink pennants through ruby glasses with rosy rims, so of course you repeat yourself, as if running into thorn bushes were routine.

So you meander mindlessly, morning evening night, morning evening night, morning evening night. When someone offers you a beautiful bouquet, you stare in confusion, wondering what in the world those colorful flowers they are holding are; but as time goes on you just shake your head politely, because you don't actually know what flowers are or what to do with them. You don't know something's good if you've never gotten it before. But then you see a geode, and you think, "Ah yes, that's the one I like." Stripe stripe silver sliver. "Yes, this is the thing I know, the only way I've known." Stripe stripe silver sliver.

You think you're running so hard so you must have gone forward, but round and round the wheel turns, and you are left right where you started, never having moved an inch. But maybe you are both like that, just the same two souls, both going round on a wheel neither of you ever agreed to. And you slowly learn that the act of growing up is learning to let go: of people, the past, and the parts those people played. Then you find that the next step is opening your eyes and seeing the world of silver slivers all about you, and that the good-hearted and the gentle-hearted and the kind-hearted are striped just a little more than everyone else. And the geode that was your own heart cracks open. Then you understand how to navigate your family tree, that those twigs next to you and the branches above you and the ones above those all blew in the same wind, running the same wheel, turning and turning, a cycle never ending, from the canopy of leaves up top to the roots down below. So finally when you understand, perhaps one day you'll both step off of your wheels together, but maybe you'll get off first, or they will, and the both of you will be happier for it. Then maybe, just maybe, you'll break that wheel that went round and round, and you'll look back one day at the tattered tapestry of your time together and think to yourself that, "That too did pass." And yes, you may be sad for the moment, but perhaps in time you'll each learn to say goodbye like a boat does a lighthouse fading in the distance. Then, you'll turn yourself around and smile in great expectation of what lies over the horizon, and all of those silver slivers on your self are transformed into glowing glimmers of hope.