The touch

She’s not sure why
Her face is red
Raw and wet and streaked and
Fallen
Lines this way and that
Telling a story she can’t
Eyes clouded with
A pain fresh but old
A scar torn open
A wound too deep
She wants the touch
that heals, that soothes
But ever doubtful
She deserves
Can she ask?
Can she receive?
She begs for dark
And peace from the trembling.
And maybe
A touch can reach her
There.

What is one of your greatest blessings? (from 300 Writing Prompts)

This is from a notebook of writing prompts...it ends rather abruptly as I ran out of writing space in the notebook and didn't want to "cheat" by writing more here.

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One of my greatest blessings is my intelligence. I have always been quick and bright. As a child, I was considered "gifted." I never quite believed I was truly any smarter than my peers; I just simply loved to read and learn new things. And learning and remembering came quite easily to me.

But I have realized, twenty years into adulthood, that being/having above average intelligence makes my life easier. I have had to endure a number of fairly difficult circumstances, not the least of which is my son's illnesses. Many things have to be researched, thought about, and decided upon; my intelligence makes it easier to sort through them with deep understanding. And I have a solid sympathy for others going through the same things, only with less ability to understand and solve them.

Of course, it means I fear any kind of dementia a lot. I would find that devastating, because quite simply, my brain is probably the thing I am most proud of.

Only - or already?

It just hit me that I'm only 40 and a lot of things could still happen to me - or I could even make them happen. I admit I've mostly been thinking that I'm already 40 and everything has already happened; the rest is just repeats.

But I'm starting to understand that maybe that's not true at all.

Tracking...

She knows this.

Believe her when she says that you are in kind of a bit of an extraordinary way. She sees things - she notices. The way you speak to him, so small and furry and dependent upon you for everything. The way you listen and understand the things she says and doesn't say. The willingness to engage in the minutiae of her life in a real and helpful way. The way you've brought her into your world - the reality of it, not just the ethereal beautiful parts (although you do that too, much to her delight). And the way that you allow her - and yourself - to have the kind of space that grows a relationship in a healthy way, letting two people be individuals who can still care deeply about one another. You allow space that creates longing, not doubt.

She knows because she's been where it wasn't kind. Where it wasn't a highly valued thing to the person she loved most, the person who said he loved her most. One of the things she wanted most of all - he couldn't see past his anger and pride to give to her.

So when she says you are kind: believe her.

Simply

You're making art...

...touching my heart.

Keep going. Keep doing. Keep me.