Everyone is beautiful enough to fall in love with.
Your mother used to say if you squinted hard enough there would always be rainbows. You remember her as a tiny fragile woman. She spent most of her life at the general hospital. You later wondered if her rainbows were truly optimism or the side effects of too many painkillers.
5 years later you’re blogging about the same story everyday. The same single story. Different scenarios. Different landscapes. Different names. About women that stopped breathing on sunny Sunday afternoons. Women connected to I.V lines. Women with seven children. Women with failed marriages. Women with no place in the society. Women who only knew true intimacy with death.
There were always constant requests to look at the other side. A particular comment suggested to “stop selling the pain of your country”.
“There is so much happening,”
“Look around you’re young”
The next post was the hardest.
“How to explain”
It was brief; you only tried to explain.
No post could solve your misery. To understand would mean peace. The post tried best to explain how you could churn situations over in your mind. Situations that dragged you to the brink of madness.
How seeking answers was your only possible solace.
Your mother’s doctors explained there was a high chance her children would be unhealthy. She trusted God instead. How she had 6 sick children. You were the exception. How more than sickness was passed on.
How there was no one to blame.
How you came from a country run on faith. How God had already put his faith in man.
Survivor’s guilt choked your sleep. It was your blanket. It was in the glass of water you kept by your bedside. It was in how you swallowed with your mouth instead of through needles straight to your bloodstream. You felt the I.V line pass through the skin of every sibling.
The story possessed you.