Hushed snow, falling with downy weightlessness, a muted touch of what’s missing. Tender whispers of a voice as familiar as my own. Some days it is more so.
In the dark, vulnerability is easier. As if the soft night may swallow up the bruised and worried places. Perhaps the words will lose their way, slipping by unnoticed. But they don’t. Truth is hard to ignore. The gloaming making strength falter; unsteady and weary, it relents. Shy utterances come slowly at first; then, tripping over one another to be given space, unearthed from a hidden time, one already past. Confessions scurry over nervous lips frightened by their frail honesty. Narratives in the third person, remote and disassociated. But true, nonetheless.
The telling makes one lighter. Less afraid, somehow. Words met with tear-veiled eyes; shrouded because not-knowing is painful. The I-could-have-been-there strength that was never offered. Because it was never asked for. Out of fear; or pride. Or a heady mix of the two.
But truth of any vintage, brought into the light, fortifies. Both. The one too weak to do anything but put one foot in front of the other, day after today-just-breath day. The one who didn’t know their sheathed strength was so desperately needed; a battle stalking in silent moments, waging unannounced. The guerilla warfare of souls.
As flakes settle on quilted beds of powdered fellows, the thrice-strengthened strand of union tumble upon postures more becoming those bent towards worship. And war.
Royalty remembered. The King’s familial ties too binding to forget. Or be forgotten.
Even in darkness, the King whispers, “I hear you.”
“Both.”
Crystal upon crystal, a jewel forms. Beauty in solitary. But ever more so in collectives. A covering for all that’s wrong.
Love, covering a multitude of sins. A myriad of hurts. A season of alone-ness, giving way to sun-sparkling, dazzling shimmer. Light. And love.
Hope. And joy.
All falling, whisper, one upon the other, “together. For the other. For the glory of the King.”
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