I am holding a young leaf. In the green I see the glow and the paths dispersing toward the edges. Each path is unique and I wish I could read them like the old woman in the fairy tales.
I can follow the curves… less the angles and, as a bad tea leaf reader, I try to guess where I shouldn’t.
This is when you stop me trying to control the damage. Patiently you pick up the pieces of me scattered on the dusty floor of the castle of my dreams. You leave all the spiders’ webs intact and barely touch the darkness swallowing the dimed moon rays from the south tower.
Your hand seem so firm as you construct the mosaic that will be me not as I was but as you want me to be. Strong, patient, confident, careful and thick skinned.
I hope you succeed and sometimes I like your work on me: I like the smile you pull on my lips when tears keep running down.
I curve myself in your silence and feel safe in this controlled indifference spiced by your care.
How can you see anything worthwhile in all these uneven pieces? Would you create a new leaded glass for the castle, welding behind your protective helmet, as I used to watch you?
You were always the king of sparks and glitter. I used to force myself to look away to not hurt my eyes when you made all better. Now you are working with my self-esteem, my broken heart and my tears to make it all come back to life and bring some color and light back into the abandon castle. Would I be sufficient once mended to bring enough blood to sustain the next climb into the central staircase?
Would all the lead between the brittle glasses make me stronger? Will people be intrigued, admire the work done or only see the fractures and mutilations?
I can’t read the leaf and my tea is now cold but I know you presence is the path going back to the light.