One Promise

“Promise me?”

Flowing light off his tongue,

the words hung heavy in the Autumn air.

Bright crimson and canary-yellow leaves

left their copse of colors

to rest on the dull concrete of the hospital courtyard.

“Promise me that you’ll try to get better?”

There must’ve been magnets in the tips of my combat boots--

the worn leather bearing the burden of a dying body.

Toes together,

heels apart,

I couldn’t meet his eyes.

I couldn’t make any promises.

The cool metal of the wheelchair’s frame

held little hope of a day without the worry:

Would I survive another relapse?

You see, when all you can think about

is calories in and calories out,

you can’t make any promises.

Because, when hope is eclipsed

by a force that is in you,

but not of you--an eating disorder--

You’re blind to light in all its forms.

Even a promise suggests that there

is hope that things will change, that I will change.

While I left this scene--

hopeless, aimless, near-death--

I survived.

Grief perches on my shoulder

like a raven on days when I wonder:

Why me? Why did I survive? Why not him?

I can’t create a “how to survive” list,

but I can tell you that the scales have fallen from my eyes--

I can see hope radiating from the ordinary.

I see it in the brilliant brown eyes of my mother

when she says,

“I love you more.”

I feel it in the silky fur of my terrier;

Her sloppy kisses

brushing over my forehead.

I hear it in the Atlantic;

Its murky blue hues

syncing with the drum of my heart.

I smell it in Spring

when the Azaleas bloom,

bursting forth in magenta.

I taste it in my morning coffee,

sweet and little bitter, yet bold,

like hope itself.

Ten sweltering summers have passed

and I now say with pride,

“There is hope in me and of me.”

Ordinary hope is the gold

that joins the once broken

pieces of me in a mosaic of brightness and dullness.

It makes me unique

in a world that seems

to champion perfection.

And, I make only one promise

to keep my senses attuned to the vestiges of hope

all around me.