There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside.” Maya Angelou
Lying in bed I feel at home – reading – marking passages. I am drawn into other countries of the heart –to stories of love and loneliness. Sighing deeply, my sadness empties for a moment onto the page.
There is quick comfort. The words open my grief. The story enters my eyes and pulse, makes a connection, and returns to black letters on white paper.
It is Sunday morning – books on the shelf behind my pillow, reading glasses secure – books and papers piled beside the bed, some books having spent the night on the bed. I reach behind my head, pull out a book and begin reading (Starting Out in the Evening – Brian Morton). After an hour or so I pull another book – begin reading – the words enter my sadness again, ring loud , pierce what I guard so carefully.
Bed and books, the loose comfort of being known through words, touched by them. It is years since anyone held me – skin to skin, lips meeting lips, fingers pulling and pushing and grasping for a fuller need – now words and story touch me in this Sunday morning bed.
Nothing was ever empty. What was gone left wounds – invisible and loud.