Pushing

What is this thing inside us that keeps the love from coming out? This wall of silence and suffering and stoic fucking absolutism that stops us up like a cork in a bottle? While we’re pushing down on all our pain and despair and rage and frustration, sitting on it like a fretful traveler on a suitcase, we’ve trapped the love inside, too.

What is this thing inside that keeps us from speaking? This miserable gag of fear and pain and nagging fucking worry that smothers us like a pillow? While we’re holding our breath and clenching our jaw like some cliche out of a horror film, our screams are leaking out like blood – slow and sluggish and so dark.

Here we are, skirting the edge of something deep and black and elementally terrifying and you’re there, I know you are. But something inside us keeps us from calling out to each other. I’m here! Hold my hand – if you fall I’ll fall with you. I don’t know what that means. I wish I could catch you, but I can’t. But I’ll fall, too.

I’ll fall with you. If you let me.

The Painted Heart, part III

My heart is painted over with the lacquered armor of more battles than I can now count, more love than I was ever entitled to receive, and more sadness than is polite to discuss. My painted heart is both broken and solid, heavy with reality.

It’s a trinket, I’m realizing now. A novelty to everyone who’s seen it. A sentimental treasure only to me. That’s human nature, isn’t it? We each have to find the glue to put the pieces back together again, chips and holes and new paint all part of the “charm” until you can either cherish it or can’t stand to look at it. But certainly you can’t expect anyone else to love it in the way you do.

My painted heart is in pieces. I don’t know how I will look at it ever again.

The Painted Heart, part II

You see it there in the window, all glossy cherry red and plump to bursting. In your hand, it fits like it was made to go there and oh the weight of it! You just know you could feel that forever – no forgetting it was in your pocket, not ever.

The paint is hard and shiny, and layered on coat after coat. The most recent application hides the imperfections of the last – dings, nicks and scratches all easily filled in with another coat of paint. There’s a flaw¬†in the side – a place where the material is malformed, but it’s hardly noticeable, you see. And the overall effect is so very lovely. You just have to have it.

You slip it in your pocket. It pulls your jacket just a tad off center. You were right – you never forget the weight of it. Not once.

The Painted Heart, part I

When I was younger, a breaking heart felt like a rend in the universe. I could feel my heart cracking down the middle like a great boulder, the echoes like thunder in the wind.

Now, though, a breaking heart feels more like an old abandoned barn. Peeling and crackled paint flaking off and falling, silent, into soft, loamy earth. The creak and whine of withered boards straining against rusty nails, struggling to maintain a shape as outdated and antiquated as anything from the last century. Lonely and bleak, a skeleton of a frame waiting for the next storm to blow it down.

Boots

From time to time, I might post old pieces that I want to keep track of, or that I think are worth revisiting. This was originally written 27 August, 2012.


A decade ago, the word “boots” would have meant ankle-height, black leather with a low, chunky heel. Something stylish and comfortable that I could stand in at work for eight or more hours. And that would be the end of this piece. Okay, if I’m being totally honest, it might have included a brief fantasy about knee-high, laced up, stiletto-heeled, these-boots-are-made-for-sexin’ footwear.

Now, though, I see a pair of tan, size 13, authorized ACU boots.

I see long laces of 550 cord pulled tight and clasped with the little spring-loaded gizmo I don’t know the name for and the excess hidden in the top. Or I see the laces ends come out of hiding, and the clasp move to the end while fingers pull slack into each section. If there is such a thing as ceremony in this house, it might be this twice-daily ritual of lacing and unlacing the tan, rough-side-out cattle hide leather, side-vented regulation army boots. They go on last at the feet, but they signify an invisible mantle that settles over the head of the wearer – the attitude of the professional soldier. At home in the evening, they come off first and it’s like everybody relaxes at the same time – not a Soldier now, just Dad and Husband.

I love to see them sit neatly side by side at the door, brushed clean and softly slouched at the top. It means the feet that go in them are home, propped up bare on the couch or getting exceptionally stinky as they sweat in tennis shoes behind the lawn mower. Maybe they’re tapping against the bottom rung of the stool, in time to the music that plays over the work bench. The boots are relaxed and so am I.

Sometimes I see row after row of them, lined up, stiff and straight. They’re clean, of course, but also worn and tired, scuffed smooth by a year of ¬†desert sand. I hear the sound they make, dozens clapping the ground in unison, a staccato rhythm of discipline and business. I see them in formation and it comforts me, those pylons in an upside-down sea of digital camouflage, marking individual pillars of soldiers. It scares me a little, too. They all look the same, but I know they are different.

I know a woman with boots in her house that will never be worn again. She leaves them by the door anyway because she can’t bear to put them away. That strikes me as both ridiculously self-indulgent and unutterably sad. I can’t seem to reconcile my need for pragmatic sensibility with the feeling that there is an encyclopedic wealth of subtext contained within a pair of boots.

I’m fearful of the day when the boots get put away for good. They’re our link to a way of life that defines our existence and a vernacular that has fused with our consciousness. What happens when those small daily ceremonies no longer bookend our day? What happens to old boots that have lost their purpose? Where to Army boots go to retire?

And will I ever think of “boots” again without first seeing my spouse, my partner in uniform? I hope not.