I dedicate this poem of sorts to a dear friend of mine, B. K.
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There were no more tears. They had been spent. Used up on the years of life which she had known. Tears, longing for the arms of god to come to her aid and carry away her sorrows. Tears from taking a step forward and being beaten back. Tears from giving her heart in deep and abiding love and being despised. Tears from friends lost. Tears from the dreams of happiness, shattered before her very eyes. Tears from yearning for one good thing – just one – to be granted her, and never getting her wish.
But there were still tears. Tears for the three shimmering baubles laid out before her in the beams of the moon, their chests rising and falling in their dreamless sleep. These tears were beautiful tears. Tears of love. Lasting tears that would never dry until she breathed her last deep sigh of life, having lived it to the fullest, becoming the woman she was meant to be.
Turning away, she gazed across the depthless waters of the unknown, while behind her stretched a warm comforting blanket of despair and familiarity, clutching at her heart, tearing at her by her arms and shoulders, pulling her back by her feet. Her mind raced backwards while she tried to step into the abyss before her.
She lifted her foot – and laughed.
Welcome home, woman of history.
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