His hand loosened from mine and I fell into the darkness
plunging without warning—without foot or handholds to lessen the depths I
plummeted.
Free-fall in space tracks no time—no distance. Memory lies
suspended, framing familiar remembrances with little use, at a moment when
unfamiliarity of the moment shoots cortisol through 240,000 miles of blood
vessels.
Suspended in time and space, altered by fear-induced
hormonal hits, the eventual clearing begins. Blurred eyes find moments of focus
and an ascent, possible.
The bowels of the pit of anything hold a stench, putridity,
a decomposing to which we become a part without the light of day, a hint of
joy, a glimmer of hope. Or we reject and
find release from its grips, seeking the light and drawing ourselves upwards
and away from its gravitational pull.
My path, which promises completeness in time, tosses me like
a Roman to the lions in their Coliseum—bare handed and courageous against the
might of the odds.
In time, each time, I chisel another foothold, handhold and
grasp when flung into the depths with fingers stretched to their optimum,
catching, holding, and dropping less deeply into free-fall.
The climb up, and out less impossible each repetitive time.
I weave and place new nets secured to soften, to catch me,
and in time, the pattern and rhythm of the hand letting my hand go, becomes
familiar and less jarring to my tender soul.
Kat
14 November 2016
