Three graves on a hill.
This family lost a infant daughter each year.
I was a young girl when I found those three small head stones.
By that time I had already lost three baby brothers. I understood them more than a pre-teen child should.
I wonder, did that mother try again? Or as she wrapped that last tiny body and laid it in the coffin her heart broke and she closed that door in herself forever.
What is it in us that breaks?
What physical part of our body - brain snaps...disconnects....breaks?
There is a stilling in my heart when life whispers to me. With a rush of wind I am filled with a sensation that I can't explain. But just for a second I am taken apart at the seams and I become a conduit that taps into an energy that is so intense I don't dare grab it.
Like all my emotions are quick silver and they pull away from me in tiny beads. The weight of this place crushes my heart and I feel skinned, inside out and contorted. In this place I have the answers.
Its too much. I close down, I feel the hold on me release and the wind recedes, and returns me to the vacuum of my daily presence.
It is in this place that she writes.
The one who reaches out with scarred arms. The one who the past didn't kill. The one who loves despite of all of it. The one I can't be. The one who words I read the next day and can't believe they came from within me.