naked

Stripped down.

Day umpteen of isolation and my armour has been peeled away.

Mirror, mirror...

tell me the truth,

who am I

without the suit

mirror mirror

be very clear,

behind the mask

behind the fear?

mirror mirror

cracked & broken?

hiding the shame

of words unspoken...

Day ... lost count at 60...

I poke at my touchscreen, trying to find a spot that still works amongst the cracks. I look like a typist from the 70's banging away at keys on a manual typewriter so that the black ink could leave an impression on white paper.

Somehow the letters never lined up, they were all over the place, trying to conform, yet always outside of the imaginary lines so desired by convention.

Everything around me breaking.

I try swinging the car keys with the golden tag of Burj Khahifa...tik tik... and nothing. 

My car as quiet as I am now,  something not connecting, so stuck here outside of the empty house. 

I call for a tow truck and mechanic, reaching out, things needing to be fixed.  

They come for her, wheel her off, take her away where others can open her up, prod around, see where the broken bits are. I look longingly at her as she is driven off, jealous she is getting the attention she deserves, knowing that I would have to pay dearly for it, but that it'll be worth it!

Breaking is infectious.

The hinges of my sliding drawers have come undone. It is now as unhinged as I am, and just as difficult, sliding aimlessly in and out, getting stuck at odd places, refusing to budge, keeping contents trapped inside. I bang at it, banging my solutions to everything it seems, drawers, handles, PC's, car batteries, myself... vehemently pushing and pulling, willing things to move. 

The drawer remains as stubborn as I am, clinging to its brokenness. 

I cuss at it, riled up now, my tea getting cold, the teaspoon so close, I can see it in the dark corner of the cutlery holder so I shove my fingers in breaking skin, and the drawer pulls in tighter, the victor. I give it the finger, and saunter off with my tea more bitter than an old woman having lived her life in fear. I suck at my wound, it tastes of iron and despair, and I tried figuring out when the problem first set in, how come it went noticed?  

The tea goes down hot and bitter, and I give the cup an offended glance wondering why I suck at dealing with niggly things

I run the cup to the kitchen sink filled with yesterday's dishes and give myself a scolding in my mother's voice. I shake it off, laziness my preferred mode in lockdown. 1 of everything a sad reminder of me minus everyone. I walk past the 6-seater dining room table set up with table cloth and chairs as if waiting for guests that nowadays never arrive.

And the pain of it coats my rough edges.

10 000 miles away from my loved ones.

How far away is far enough?

How long is long enough?

The house remains in silence. I speak to myself in a whispered voice afraid the universe will hear me and call me to account. 

Why delve at ruins?

Why excavate when you can plaster over? 

I ponder these questions in the absence of courage. Not ready to face the person in the mirror quite yet.

Slowly, slowly... I begin.

The change in me is physical at first. 

First to go are the outer layers: clothes, make up, hair, shoes .

Next,  habits and rituals and longheld beliefs.

And with comes new practices: yoga at dusk, dancing to "I will survive", walking barefoot on blades of grass coated with early morning dew. And baking...lots of baking, endlessly cleaning unused rooms while wearing the flowiest of robes, and having endless conversations laced with uncertainty...

And what remains are the old faithful's: daily prayers, conversations with sisters, old memories of loved ones past, and  him & him ...

And along with all the silence and isolation, a return to self and 55 years of unpacking, and mourning and celebration. And an appreciation for this life of endless change and wonder.

My flaws.

So many...

My broken bits...

Too much...

My giant heart.

Unapologetically huge and cheesy.

But I am left with an optimism for our new reality. 

Words unspoken.

Pah!

I reach out to him...

Say the unspoken...

And the realization dawns, I have always been whole.