Solitary Confinement

The light inside had been dying for some time, but she told herself it was just resilience building up; everything was like water off a duck's back. It wasn't until she couldn't conjure enough emotion to spill onto paper that she realized how empty everything was inside. She hadn't been bottling her emotions up inside; you can't bottle what you can't feel.

You can't stab a heart that isn't there. 

The only feelings left were tied up in memories of days gone by. Days full of imagination and hope. When was the last time she felt hope? When was the last time she closed her eyes and let her imagination run wild? When was the last time she actually believed one day her scribbles would make headlines?

It's like writing with rain on water. 

The mind is a powerful tool, and what once had been her best friend, was now her greatest hurdle. She had built a barrier to shield herself from the pain, and locked her hopes and dreams out with it. The mind is a dangerous thing to put in solitary confinement. The thought of breaking the barrier, much less permitting emotions to flow freely once more, seemed exhausting.

And so she stared blankly at the sheet of paper, wrestling with leftover trickles that had long since turned to dust, unsure of how to break forth the torrent once more. She stood and poured another cup of tea, letting her mind go back to the first thoughts she scribbled on paper; back when the flood was still strong. She remembered vividly every feeling she had ever had, and yet she was unable to feel them again. No idea, no plot, struck her now as it ever had in the past. And no matter what she conjured now, it never seemed as real and exciting as it did before. Thoughts and feelings then were so vivid and new, she had written them in a frenzy of excitement she was eager to share with the world.

Now she felt nothing she had to say was worth hearing; nothing she felt was worth sharing. What once had been her catharsis was now her tomb.

A mind left in the dark will fade away.

Ketlyn Austen©

Bergamot

Getting down the stairs seemed a greater challenge each morning. Legs that once stood atop the great Mount Everest were now weak with age and heartbreak. Still, every morning at sunrise, I forced myself out of bed, clung to the rail for dear life, and shuffled down the stairs. I was so set in my routine I could do it with my eyes closed; which was convenient since I was still too stubborn to wear my glasses.

I heated the water and poured the leaves in the teapot strainer. I let it steep while I took down my favourite cup, the rock sugar, and cream. Then I waited for the sun’s rays to heat my kitchen window while the smell of bergamot filled the room. My son insists I would fall apart without my morning black tea, never mind how unhealthy the caffeine is for me. But it’s not the caffeine I crave; it’s the memories that flood through me every time I catch a whiff of bergamot.

It’s a bittersweet smell, bergamot is. I remember many late night cups of tea over nail polish and good friends. I remember Brent making me another pot while I studied for finals every bit as much as the morning cup to go on my first day of work; a day full of promise and hopes at a bright career. I remember bleary mornings that started too early, with a baby that at long last finally slept. I remember his first day of school, and his first scraped knee.

I also remember how he held my hand when they gave me the news of Brent’s accident. I remember the nights by his bed until his body gave up, and I remember the months and years of ensuing emptiness not even my baby granddaughter could fill.

The sun’s heat begins to feel unbearable and I glance at the clock in the corner. Any minute now, John will come ambling down the stairs to make his coffee and breakfast for Nataly before she goes to school. Then he’ll shake his head at me, but join me for another cup of tea. And the bergamot will seep into his heart and wake up memories of days gone by.

KetlynAusten©