Warrior Mirror

Warr;ior Mirror

Find me - don't find me.

A brave front

of actress hair and makeup. Alone.

Try to figure me out and . . . I have already lost.  You.

Know me and you never have to guess:

I   stand    right   here.   Publicly.

Pencil your way through my maze: futile.

Speak my language?

Lifers.

I hear your pulse with my eyes.

Your tats a roadmap;

Mirrors of breakage.

Blind your senses

Don't find me - find me.

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I get that everyone wants to be understood, but what about those of us who believe we can never be fully known? I suppose I would settle for seen. I wonder if either feeling understood or even partially known rattles my cave? What if all of this darkness and seclusion hides all I have branded evil, unworthy, and unlovable about me. As much as I want to be seen, I never want to be seen. I protect horrors of my past as if they were the core of my being, as if others would see the brokenness as my essence.

Until.

Until that one mirror appears. Tacit. Here is a snippet; one of the very first mirrors I encountered…

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TACIT

Jumping back and forth from one foot to the other helps me deliberate between a fossil and my prized marbles for show-and-tell. My father, the spook, sure complicates Parents’ Day. Making a last-minute swap in an effort to please my dad, I leave the cigar-boxed collection of marbles behind on the welcome mat before slamming our front door.

The vibe of excitement and anticipation electrifies Mrs. Wind’s room. My class waits restlessly for the afternoon when moms and dads arrive to observe; I bob my knee to the nerves pulsing in my head. During a rare quiet moment generated by a quiz, I notice a three-piece-suit out of the corner of my eye holding a box. I try to focus on subtraction, but what if dad came early? No need to turn around. One hundred and nine marbles hit the linoleum.

Instant regret strikes my gut remembering where I left my marble box. I hide under my desk. Ducking for cover arises instinctually, partly as a reaction to the embarrassment of the spill, but primarily from living in terror of my father.  

Giggles fly and second-grade feet scramble to pick up marbles. I narrow my shoulders and slide back into my seat that both squeaks and rocks, blushing from my toes to my cowlick. Dad pushes his comb-over back into place from his red face and Mrs. Wind bring her hand down from covering her gaping mouth.  I hold my breath waiting for my father to offer the empty cigar-box-marble-receptacle to my classmates.

Dad chuckles. He usually masters his emotional mask in public. All of my marbles return safely to their home with the help of my class.  My father smiles and sends a goofy wave in my direction before disappearing into the hallway, taking with him my collection. 

My stomach churns and my eyes lock on my pant legs. Mrs. Wind says something that floats around like a sound cloud in a Charlie Brown kind-of-way. I slump into my own silent, frozen world. My father personalizes my successes and failures as a direct reflection on his identity and this moment will be counted as an assault. I am an 8-year-old in constant turmoil with a dad conveniently protected by his government cover. I intrinsically understand the shame of this secret world.

My face decides to blink again as my pal Patrick hands me a paper airplane carefully crafted from his math test. 

When two kids share tacit despair, they know how to speak to each other without words; the airplane brings me momentary solace. Mrs. Wind makes her way over and teaches from behind my chair. I long to be beneath this desk, hidden from so many eyes.  

The spill registers as more than a funny mishap; it plays the warped symphony of incest and all that it entails. The perspective and safety of time and separation opens space to reflect. I saved the glass treasures because Pop gave them to me. I could float off in my mind to the farm, imagining a silly game of marbles while laying on our bellies. The cigar box failed. The treasure I assembled as my vehicle for teleportation hit the cold floor; the pleasure of leaving the room in a dream bubble changed forever. Out in the open, without a desk to hide beneath, charged with defending my secret, I understood my father’s entitlement to merely blush, wave, and disappear.

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Journey with me as I share where my ashes originated? Know you are not alone. Welcome in.

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