The storm came early in her life,
Its heavy darkness defying words―
A terror in the presence of which
Presence of mind is nowhere to be found,
And one does well just to hold on
To the simpler things, like breathing.
Memories are scarce, and you’ll rarely
Hear her speak of it forthcomingly,
For why should she, wishing never to return?
But she does sometimes return,
Being transported involuntarily
When there is in the air some hint,
However faint, of rejection
Or of being disapproved
Or despised
Or abandoned
Or condemned.
And it closes in on her all over again,
Its pall descending on her with dark torments,
For which, it seems her custom,
The presence of mind is best absent
And the only words that avail themselves
Are “please make it stop”.
And I have seen her fall under its spell,
Bewitched mid-sentence―
And even when there was no condemnation,
But only some scant reminder of it.
And it saddens us so, that she will not
Take us along, that we might strengthen her
With the presence of our minds
And offer some benefit in snapping her out of it
Sooner than later.
Yet we wait patiently for her to return,
Having skipped the rest
Of whatever chapter we were on,
Yet being eager enough to jump in on the next,
Whenever she is ready.
