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Words Unspoken; Is Withholding LittleMe Back From the Frontlines of Truth Worth the Work?

Photo by Juan Pablo Serrano Arenas on Pexels.com

Batter, batter, SWING! LittleMe is Fine. Just Fine. she has landed in the far left field and sees her emotions and truth fly onto paper and form words that not a whole hell of a lot of humans care to see. She redirects her energy repeatedly to NOW. Mindfulness is becoming easier yet we all have days when we must sit on the bench and rethink our game. Lm loved listening to baseball with a very special elderly woman she once cared for. It was soothing and lightened the stagnancy of the moss green velvet drapes which broke the afternoon sunlight into tiny seedlings, highlighting the dust on the woman’s cluttered dressing table. Glass bottles with hints of perfume, a small basket of lipsticks and a silver hairbrush and comb for her silver long hair. Lm took the brush and tried to push it through her own thick light-brown and reddish locks then opened all the lipsticks to see and smell their colours. She went to the old, tired woman who was being held up by several pillows and touched her hand, checked her pulse and then took a moist sponge on a stick and carefully wiped around her mouth and lips. The woman smiled a bit. Lm then took lotion and rubbed her hands gently as her hands were covered in a thin layer of bruised, rice paper thin skin. The woman smiled a bit more. Next, Lm brushed her long and thin white hair and pinned it up nicely and picked out a soft sea berry red for her lips. She held the mirror that matched the soft hair brush up to the woman’s face and asked her to look. The woman opened her eyes and said, “you are so beautiful”. Lm said her name which was always prefaced with Mrs. and the woman opened her eyes again. Lm held up a small plastic syringe and pressed an electrolyte mixture under the woman’s tongue and held her neck from behind and asked her to swallow. The woman said again “you are so beautiful”. Lm reminded the fragile woman that in the mirror was her face, not Lm’s, then the woman said, “I know what I look like, I have seen my face in mirrors for over ninety years.” Lm smiled and tuned in the baseball game; it was the Baltimore Orioles against who cares. Mrs. “I know what I look like” began to drift into slumber and had a soothing baby like snore. Lm watched as the sunset, how the shadows changed and her mind was restless; she turned on lamps adorned with knotted tassels and costume gems and the soft light comforted her. The Orioles were tied and she was drawn to study her own face in the mirror, it was still young, perhaps twenty-seven and her white uniform fit perfectly. She saw her eyes in a way that no one else could, the pain and fear, the worry and silenced emotions and turned away. What good is beauty without truth? She was running constantly in her mind away from her experiences with her now and then father, her self focused mother and clung to the shining bedrails which ensured Mrs. would be safe for the night. It would become an obsession of self examination, rewinding her memories and it would take thirty plus more decades to find her self. She knew nothing then. She only knew there was something hidden within her that had to be expelled so she could look at herself when she turned ninety and say, “you look beautiful”.