Coming around the corner of the hallway, peering gently into the room, cautiously, he had just tried to convince her, with his hand softly on her shoulder, in almost a calm, steady, whisper, “tell it, let it out,” he said. Looking out over the veranda, in this country so beautiful, everything in white. The homes and the centerpieces and even the benches all were encassed in white. The pathway, it ambled like rolling hills to the side and down.
She wondered if the time had come, to open up and let the butterfly out. The energy was so pent up inside, that when she allowed herself to feel it, it exploded with so much intensity, that the room was full of sound. She let herself get caught up in it’s moment, and was taken aback by how strong the tidal waves came. With a rush, beams, colors of light flashed out of her being, and an orchestra played. The music crescendoed and danced in the air as if it were alive. Feeling as the center of a movie or a piece of action with so much heart, it whipped past her and through her and all around. It filled up the sky for miles around. It was so beautiful and so strong she felt things that she had felt many times before, but never in a rush like that, not so condensed. It told it’s own story as she let it shine. The storm of music and her heart wringing with tears, explaining things she kept wrapped up inside; after time had gone by, it quieted down.
She sat still and the tears fell. She cried and she cried, silently. Remembering again the scene that replays in her mind every day recently. Again she saw as she stood there, in silence watching them around her. Observing as she spoke to her, as she watched her comb her wig. Reluctantly stoic as she left her side and chose the shadow of another for the moment in safety. Not knowing what had happened or was happening at that, all but assuming for what she had been told.
Her friend, she came to the center of the room and as she was looking up to her, she spoke of her new transition, her new body, and again about the appointments. She wanted to wrap her arms around her and cry, to scream to the roof tops why? Her body was no longer her own but only a plastic shell. Because her emotion was so deep she finally understood. As she was in the center of the room silent, the storm inside her raged on. She thought for safety she must not say, for life she must not speak, for breath she must not tell. But the storm it froze inside her. The one that needed to come in a torrent, the one that needed to explode.
Copyright Kat Lyons