(With)holding


Dear Eugene,

I've come to realize there is a lot of self-preservation in me.  I would like to say I love myself too much but really I am in fear of my own falling, soon and again.  God is mighty and I know he certainly cares, but it is always good to have something on the side.

I am walking on a long dark road now.  There is a man in front of me, the cigarette between his fingers the only light guiding him and me.  He is careful with it to keep it burning.  It is good to hold something in your hand when the road is long and dark.  Smoke lingers in the air smells like a beast hungry for love. You wallow in the solace of its breath and at once everything is so painlessly simple.

Rain is not falling heavily like yesterday and I count that as an extra blessing.  I can also see it as blessing withheld the day before.  Holding and withholding, we're playing tug of war with God.

A flashing light is coming towards me, its rhythm interrupting my darkness.  I believe it is a bicycle.

Yours, Alex

Comments

  1. KateNovember 28, 2018 at 10:34 AM

    Dear Eugene,

    “... The cigarette between his fingers the only light guiding him and me.... Smoke lingers in the air... and at once everything is so painlessly simple.”

    Last night my kid untwisted the truth writhing in me with her question painlessly simple and curt: Why am I always writing about death at mid-age?

    Again and soon, falling in fear my own on a road long and dark, I’ve come to realize holding on the withholding would be a game, a war of tugging with smoke. Knowing is lingering somewhere between curb and road in gutter, a beast flashing in and out of love, rain (with)held without rhythm within drought of hearts withstanding darkness interrupted.

    So on my predawn walk to the campus today I needed to hold onto something fallen far from the sides. Leaves. Not just any. Those tugged by the rain and wind overnight from their hinges on cigarette branches, now wallowing in puddles, burning in will to live a moment gifted, seared by wheels & soles rubbery hot in haste and horror of self-preservation.

    Down on concrete leveled in rhythm, I shrank down to hold a rust red leaf fallen trodden forsaken on the side. Whatever force holding its frame, however ruthlessly robust the withholding to preserve its integrity, whoever capable of (with)holding me from testing its tensile strength and shredding it to clone its marvel would be “blessing withheld the day before”.

    Leaf fallen, rising above everything on the side, to love me much too darkly on an early November morn.

    Yours, Kate

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