matters of the heart

It’s another beautiful day in the city, at least in the world outside myself. The sky is a startling pearly blue, not a single cloud dancing across the expanse of heaven. The air is crisp and cool, cold to skin that is accustomed to 90 degree weather on a daily basis. I shiver and snuggle deeper within my sweatshirt, thankful that my feet are actually covered this morning in a rare pair of tattered white socks. I sit quietly for a minute, trying to drown the worries running through my mind. Trying to find a moment of balance, of peace. It is not there, not here, not today.

Another dreaded phone call last night, my heart racing, pounding, feeling as if it might explode at any moment with the fear that her heart may not be strong enough. No longer able to postpone the 2 hour drive, the smell of hospital antiseptic, the tears that flow so endlessly when I see her frail body attached to too many machines. My mind replays my last conversation with her, both of our words smothered in tears, desperate reminders of our love for one another, despite anything in this world. My heart literally hurts when I think of my mama and my aunt, their fears and worries, the pain they have lived with for so many years. I think of their pleas to care for their mother, their tolerance of the brutal cruelty of a father that never gave them the love they deserve. I am haunted by his hatred and mesmerized by the strength of these three women. One en route to spend more sleepless nights in a hospital chair, tending to her mother’s every need. Another across the country, worried sick, sending love and hope across the many miles, terrified that her last visit may indeed have been the last. And then the one in the bed, her heart fighting against life, against death, against the pain she has known for too many years. And through all the years, none of them ever let go of their inner strength, that life-propelling force that kept their own hearts filled with love even as the bitter words of hatred have been flung against them.

I think of the distance that has been forced between my grandmamma and me for the past several years. I wonder if I could have forged the bridge that kept us separated, if I could have pushed through the negativity towards him and allowed myself to be closer to her. If I could have ignored the cruel words, the meanness, the hatred; if I could have pushed it all aside in order to spend more time by her side, helping my mama care for her mama. But it is not a time for wondering now. I cannot change the past few years. I can only choose to remember the times when I have sat with her, rubbing lotion gently across her bruised skin, cradling her face in my hands, telling her repeatedly how dearly I love her. And I can only trust that she knows. That she can feel my love for her, can see it, can know it deep inside her own heart.

It is time now to pack and get on the road. A trip both dreaded and anticipated. But I need to see her, to hold her face in my hands again, to remind her once again that she is indeed loved very deeply.