International Writers Magazine - Our Tenth Year: Captive Love
gift of tears
kept them in her eye. There were a few of them, six who stayed always,
about eleven who came and went. But most stayed right there, and
no matter what she did or where she went, she saw them- sometimes
talking among themselves, sometimes drinking a glass of beer or
wine, sometimes looking at her. She needed them there; she could
not function without them, without knowing that they were there
looking at her and needing her in return
Every so often
they could not take it anymore; every so often one of them tried to
plan an escape. Soon, they found that if they knocked hard enough on
her corneas door shed begin to cry, and one by one they
fell, riding to earth on her tears. But, there was one who never fell.
She had met him when she was twenty, and he was her first real love.
After hed finished his studies and moved across the country to
work theyd corresponded with the vague idea of meeting again some
day, but then hed begun to write less and less often, to say less
and less in his letters, to no longer use the word love.
That was when she decided to go and find him. She saved her money, took
a train across the country, and showed up on his doorstep. He stared
at her in astonishment and before he could even say a word, she snatched
him up and placed him in her eye, just as she would later do with all
who were to come. There he stayed, plastered to a thick white wall until
at last he could not take it anymore, and with the others he hatched
a plan. One night, when she was almost falling asleep, he instructed
them all to form a line against the door, and then, in one mighty effort,
they began to push and shove, to demand that the door be opened and
their imprisonment brought to an end.
Jerked awake suddenly, she did not know what had happened, but all of
it was there before her. The moment when shed met each of them.
The kisses and caresses, the long lazy mornings and luminous nights,
and then the cracking-sometimes a sudden split, an eggshell shattered
against the side of a bowl, sometimes a slow, gradual rupture of a mountain
slowly growing in between. Remembering the rejections, the disappointment
and lost hopes, she sat up in bed and started to cry, sobbing more profusely
than she had in years, more intensely than she had in all her life.
So consumed with grief was she that she did not even notice that in
each of the thick, fleshy tears a lost love was escaping, this time
not to return. For after some hours she cried herself to sleep, and
on awakening the next morning she touched her eye to find that all of
them- even the first and most precious - were long gone.
From then on, she was left with the curse. Tears are meant for catharsis
not for stasis and captivity. Because she had abused
the gift of tears, now they would be denied her. Sadness came; darkness
came; hollowness and heaviness consumed her. But now, all she could
do was stare at the dried-up lake around her, lamenting not only the
loss of her companions in sorrow, but the tiny waves that had swept
them away from her for good.
© Jeannine Pitas February 2009
jumpingjitterbug at gmail.com
A few years back my parents began hosting foreign exchange students
who came to live in our house for a few months
Entropy Jeannine Pitas
I canąt stand it when someone yells at me. It really doesnąt matter
who it is-
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