Your Story
You have entrusted me with your story,
but I do not yet know how to tell it.
The hero’s and villain are clear
even the plot is readily defined;
yet the magnitude of your experience
has left me stupefied.
How can I do justice to what you have said?
How can I possible testify to your wounded soul and body?
How can I make clear to others what your friendship meant?
You were middle age,
a woman in her 40’s –
neither young nor old –
a mother with grown children,
gathered with her family,
to grieve a loss.
How could such a thing happen,
at the hand of a man,
who was supposed to be your friend,
a man who proclaimed to love your God?
You speak of the fear,
the terror,
the sleepless nights,
the search for comfort –
it is all too familiar –
but this is not my story,
it is yours.
I must step back
and only hear your words,
I cannot interject the familiarity
of my own defilement,
into your tragedy;
but oh my,
I feel your pain,
and so wish neither of us
had ever known
this anguish.
You do not want to focus on the attack,
the degradation,
humiliation
and agony
are only mentioned in passing,
instead you want me to know
how she ministered compassion,
tenderness,
and love
unto you.
The nights were the worst,
you state matter-of -factly;
I cannot help but agree with you,
I too know,
the nights are the worst.
There was an aching,
which would not subside
you say;
but you would call her,
it was the middle of the night,
the households of girls were fast asleep,
you would know she had had a long day,
and that morning would come early for her,
but you would call her,
and she would answer.
Mostly,
she would listen
as you spoke,
and shed more tears;
but she would also pray for you,
you utter ever so gently.
What had brought you together
and created a bond that would
last for decades,
you both go back to,
repeatedly,
regardless of the miles between you,
you would clutch the telephone
and seek comfort
the only way you could.
The sun would come up
the girls would begin to stir,
coffee needed to be made,
breakfast and lunches prepared,
you would both say good-by,
grateful for the friend
on the other end
who always answered the phone.
It helped,
you say,
knowing you could call her,
that she would answer,
we got through it together,
you gingerly proclaim,
and then you grow silent.
I say that
she never told me,
my heart is crushed for you,
you are not surprised,
you tell me
that the two of you
guarded each other’s secrets
and shared each other’s sorrows,
but a small smile crosses your face,
she was my friend,
you tell me.
She was your friend,
and you were also her friend;
I marvel at the strength,
and courage,
which you both shared.
The conversation slowly meanders away
from this most tragic of moments,
and returns to the celebration of your friendship,
which I am left thinking about
long after we part company.
I am consumed by a deluge of emotions,
my mind is racing with your words;
but I settle my thoughts and feelings
on this friendship,
that sustained you both,
through so very much,
it was a gift
and it was cherished.
The thought gives me comfort,
though only for a moment;
as I think about the grief you bear,
at the loss of your lifelong friend.
But you corrected me,
you know that one day
you will be reunited,
in a celebration,
where pain will forever be vanquished;
and you believe she is already
saving your place at the banquet table.
Meanwhile,
you are comforted by your memories,
after all
in this solitary life,
what more can one ask for
than a friend to love
who loves you in return?
~ Cristina Jill Mosqueda ~
