Hula's ink spot

"But there was the past. There was the question. There was the dead kitty burried in the ash heap."

Im a romantic. Not in the; man/woman, buy me flowers, dinner and a 10 karat diamond ring mentality, but in the sense that I want everything to be beautiful. And everything was beautiful, or what I saw as beautiful, or maybe what I convinced myself was beautiful. I once asked my mother, as a young girl, what to do when things started to look ugly and she told me to pray. And so I clasped my hands each and every night. Id tuck myself into bed and wait for my sister to fall asleep. It seemed odd to me, that Id have to pray in private. When I heard the soft rhythmic purrs of her peaceful sleep, Id press both hands together, sit upward and silently thank the fading glow in the dark stars that I adhered to my bedroom wall three years prior, many of which fell, to make the once beautiful constellations look like a torn kiddie pool, a broken wine goblet, a torn bag. Id press so hard my little, slender fingers would redden and I would feel the warmth of my hard pressed efforts make a fire in my hands. Nothing happened. Each night I prayed as I thought I was supposed to. I asked God why my family was no longer beautiful, why I wasnt beautiful, why my best friends dad had to die? God didnt seem to answer me, and with each determined attempt, each precious night of waiting and waiting and pressing my little hands together so hard I thought they might bleed, I began to sleep less. They called it insomnia, and my mom would suggest warm milk. I thought that sentiment beautiful.

I was also teased. I was struggling so hard to have a simple conversation with God. All my friends seemed able to do as much. Theyd talk about it in class. What it feels like to pray, how wonderful it is, how your soul feels lifted. Annie even mentioned that her prayer helped save her little sisters life. I just wanted God to tell me what I thought I already knew. I just needed convincing, and I felt a little foolish. But then one day my CDD teacher asked us, not what it felt like to pray, but what we saw when we prayed. Annie SAW God, she was sure. He looked exactly like the statue in front of church, and she beamed and bounced her little head up and down to my teachers extended grin. Jimmy saw nothing but felt a warm presence, like a hug, he said. I never knew what it felt like to pray, because I felt God hadnt answered me, much less listened to me. I was an outsider and was too afraid to let any of my peers know, so I raised my hand, high in the air, and thought to myself, well Ill announce the first thing that comes to mind, I was a creative little girl in those days. The teacher raised an eyebrow, I never spoke much in class. I pray in the rain, the class giggled, but I continued. I could see it so clearly and it was so beautiful. Like Im laying down on sodden grass and sheets of rain just fall on me, but all I can feel is calm. Like everything around me is so beautiful. My teacher shook her head and scolded me not to make up such nonsense. What would God think and maybe he should rain down on such a naughty little girl as me. But I never forgot that image. Like I could always feel the wet on my back, as if I lay in an open field of torrential rain, and it felt like a cool, calm spring.

I stopped trying to pray one night as I lay there and felt nothing. I couldnt even summon up the vision I crafted so many years before of a beautiful night of laying in the rain. And so every night I fell asleep. My hands separated, my God abandoned and I grew bored of extreme weather patterns.

My mother and I stopped talking. And I moved a few states over to create a new life for myself. Nothing really seemed all that attractive to me anymore and I embraced all forms of escape, reading, running, school, obscene hours of work. I proved myself worthy but felt very little for myself. I fell asleep each night with only a hallow sensation, and things seemed only to worsen.

I couldnt think of any more escapes. I was too busy but not busy enough. I was too good a friend, but not a friend to myself. Id go to bed earlier each night, as I had no where else to go, until I remembered what my mother had told me. She told me to pray, and although God had been left me long ago, I thought of what Id always asked for. I wanted everything to be so beautiful; my mother was so beautiful, the sofa, my cat, my first amateur sketch. I tried to take everything in but my eyes got clouded and everything became a transparent haze, like the rich dense ocean water my father would throw me into on our summer vacations in Myrtle Beach. I clutched the phone in a prayer like stance and called my best friend. Amongst chocking sobs she repeated in terror, whats wrong? Whats wrong? and all I could say was that I was ready to forgive my mother and I was ready for her to forgive me. I will never forget that moment. How ironic that the one moment I was blinded with beauty, I could see everything in its entirety. Almost like those romanticized testimonials of near death experiences. It was a late, cool evening and I ran outside and lay on the soft grass. With my arms out stretched I felt the weight of water fall all over me, and the sky, the constellations, my mother and myself were reflected in them.

"Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself, and hidden in the public eye, such a stellar monument to lonliness. Laced with brilliant smiles, and shining eyes, perfect makeup but you're barely scraping by."

She worried about the pain. Born a natural coward- never experiencing the sensation of a roller coaster, having doctors bring in muscle bound reinforcement to administer simple vaccinations, paralyzed at heights, petrified of depth- she conditioned her mind to keep her safe. And so she reasoned, that to alleviate an overwhelming, worsening pain- one without medical ailment or a therapists Monday night cure- shed willingly withstand a meager, momentary pain. One of earned anticipation that could be instigated through a simple purchase at the corner drug store. If done correctly the hurt might be mistaken for longed relief. She debated her curious thoughts as she tried to calm her shaking hands. The pills seemed to dance through her nervous clutch, and through them she remembered her grandmothers worried nights and her grandfathers brute demands, You better eat. As much as she wanted to remove herself from their complicated grasp, causing unwanted guilt, unnecessary change, she remained in their hold. The dancing drugs had waltzed their last, and her weak hand had suffocated their speed, eliminated their light. She rapidly paced what little room space she was granted and grew dizzy from the mounting memories and concerns that invaded her mind. She may have exhausted her time in this depressive pace, eventually returning the pills to their initial and rightful container, falling asleep, afraid to experience tomorrow. But she was a child of signs, forfeiting her belief in God, yet finding omens in the unseen. And so she didnt intend to break her hysterics, tripping over her overflowing wastebasket; contents of impurities, candy bar wrappers, empty bags of potato chips, a vending machines paradise- contents of her purpose. Their being had specific meaning, her falling- a needed catalyst. The memories ceased and the fear dissipated and seizing the moment she opened her mouth and was gone. Shed later come to recognize the feeling as empty, but free. Almost as if she had an entire airport at her disposal and could roam its quarters and run its course, alone, as she wanted. But much like a dream she was abruptly stopped. Airport security was never fully off duty and her holiday hours had expired.

"I'll be waving my hands, watching you drown, watching you scream- quiet or loud..."