Thursday, November 10, 2005

He soaks in a white porcelain tub filled to the brim with tears. Warm salty tears. He’s been crying for a life time but the tub never overflows. Perhaps the tears begin to evaporate at the very moment the tub may overflow. His tears become one with the air that we breathe. We are with him and he is with us. His face is stained with tears. They sail down the soft rivers, the wrinkles in his eyes. His eyes that burn not because of the tears but because of the pain they have witnessed.
He soaks in a white porcelain tub. Naked and vunerable. His tears are warm, hot almost, they’ve been burning inside him for so long. He can still feel the coolness of the white porcelain tub, He cannot ignore it against his bare body, nothing but bones and skin he is, sensitive to everything.
The white porcelain tub, in the white tiled bathroom, in the white brick house with the freshly painted white walls and the new velvety white carpet in the deceivingly quiet town softly disguised with a blanket of white powdery snow, the kind that never melts. The carpet covers his entire house, in the kitchen and the bathroom, all the unusual places to find carpet. Perfectly white, no stains and not even a foot print. Perfectly white walls, no smudges or uneven paint, no finger prints, perfectly white.
Why the only things that are not perfectly white in his house are the pile of what looks like charcoal stained white towels and the blackest of black ring around the tub in which he lies. The only things that are far from white in the town he resides are the hearts and the souls of his neighbors.
Every evening he soaks in his white porcelain tub filling it with new sorrows. Warm, salty sorrows. He’s very careful to move in his white porcelain tub, he dares not get a single sorrow on the white velvety carpet. But he needs to scrub off the sins of the day. He uses a milky white Dove soap and a rough bristly brush. He scrubs himself raw. His skin red, a pinkish red like a new born baby, the blood that slowly seeps from his skin dark red, like merlot. Immediately the merlot clings to the side of the tub with the dirt and the sin and the sorrows forever trying to rid the tub of that awful ring.
Every morning he wakes up, the sun blinding his eyes, piercing almost, reflecting off his crisp white linens, the freshly painted white walls, and the soft velvety white carpet. He enjoys this, waking up to the bright sun, warming his heart. Melting the ice that begins to form overnight from the nightmares he can’t seem to rid himself of. The ice from his heart runs through his veins and out his pores saturating his white linens dark black. He rinses in the white porcelain tub and the remainder of his mourning heart adheres to the dark black ring.
The sun does not melt the snow, it cannot melt the snow. The sun is powerful and good but it cannot seem to penetrate through the snows’ façade. It is not real snow, it’s not the beautiful kind of snow that children create fairytales in. It is a harsh snow, a snow that people create when they can’t tell the difference between real and fake, when they just don’t care anymore. He hates this snow. He kicks it around and tries to sweep it off his bright green grass. It does not work, it’s like pulling two strong magnets away from each other. That split second is what he longs for, it’s what he thrives on. When he can feel the sun on his skin, when it makes him feel as though he can dance among the clouds, when he see that bright green grass. That’s when it happens. That’s when he falls in love with the world.
I wish I could stop right here. I wish I could hold him in this moment forever and preserve the love inside his heart.
I cannot and I will not. See because he is resilient.
He falls in love with the world every day. Everyday it finds a way to break his heart. It shatters right there on his front lawn. It turns red, a beautiful balloon red, fading to white as soon as it touches the snow. Right where the bright green was now white but he picks up the pieces just the same. Everyday he brings them inside his white brick house, through the heavy white door. He lays the pieces of heart on his white wooden kitchen table. He pulls out of his white drawers with white handles, fire red thread....


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