She buries and I exhume. The faster she throws the dirt on top of the body, the harder I work to remove it. Sometimes she's faster and the grave fills and I have to abandon my work. But there are many bodies in this potters field and in the dark of night when she sleeps, I walk beneath the moonlight with spade over my right shoulder and finding their markers and proceed to dig. I'm convinced the bodies down there are not dead, merely unconscious.
I know they could still speak to her for they have to me. They told me things she would like to disown, stories she'd insist were all lies, or that died long ago, but she forgets...I can read the words that beat in one's heart, and can hear the voices that speak from those graves.
It's OK to bury them...let them rest. They will again speak to her, in pensive moments: when frustrated at work, when weaving in and out of traffic, when trying to express what her heart denies. She can bury them out of sight, denying their existence, but they still speak -- and she still listens.
So while I empathize with her frustrations, with her lack of overt respect, I know she loves them dearly...and so do I. She worries that there will never be another...yet they confide in low tones...beneath mundane thoughts they whisper, and it's only a matter of time before she listens and gives new life to their words. Because just like me, she is blessed with the gift of THEM and we do not control what they do, we merely listen and obey...and write their words.
Today a new one whispered to her, and so I know soon she will begin burying it deep beneath the earth. I will again begin removing the sod, not because I fear their interment, but because I want her to see that I've been there.
Adding your comment:
Got to run, bye.
