Writing

What of the Sound of Tires on Wet Pavement

When I hold her in my arms, the sound of car tires on wet pavement and the screeching and honking outside dissolves, the clanging and scraping of the homeless guy pushing his shopping cart of plastic bottles down the street sounds more like a maestro and his orchestra, the Greek mafia next door selling drugs may as well be selling girl scout cookies, and for the life of me I can’t remember what had me so worked up just before I came to see her, as she gazes into my eyes with a pureness longing for the full light of day.

When she screams, something deep in the bowels of the most primordial secrets of my psyche stirs and shivers with fear and awareness I only found before in the silence of the wind rustling in the trees at night. I felt so alone, but in this moment now, the whimpering and crying out of her whole body, makes me remember everything I was ever afraid to admit to myself, and it comes rushing forward almost spilling onto her face, before I tilt my head and smile, trying to hide something she probably already saw.

When she quiets into that peaceful gaze a baby knows and relishes, I realize the volume of noise raging in the space and time of my mind, slipping and returning again and again, defeating my will.

The smell of her head reminds me of a time before; before I was told, "you can’t...", or “be quiet,” or “no”, or “I love you”, or before I ever said “I can’t”, before being judged, before I learned to close my eyes, before I lost, or won, before I could see more, before I wanted, before I ran up that mountain, before I knew better, before I questioned, before I could accept, before I failed, there is a peace.  A peace I could see on her face and in her eyes.  A pureness of life reflecting like a flower in a vase on the ledge of a window in the sun,” am I happy or sad?” The flower doesn’t know, neither does she. Simply existing is her life.  And I wonder how long before I see the change come over her, as our world shows her the way, away from her ‘self’ at peace.

 What would happen if I was courageous enough to know all I know and have no need to tell anyone?  To feel a love so powerful that it devastates me everyday.  If all the past and present the little life I hold in my arms calls forth, was able to be accepted and sat within at rest, what would I be like? Would I be like her, at peace?  Or is it lost forever?  Would I know more happiness, or more grief, or both?  And as I hold her staring into me, I feel no urge to hide, no urge to run, no need to control, no urge to close my eyes and look away.  As a tear rolls down my cheek, she shows no sign of judgment.  She rests in this moment, staring into the silence between us.  The silence that sounds like, “everything is beautiful.”