I remember what L said before- that sometimes, people come completely undone due to some Tiny incident, not because of their reaction to the incident itself, but because of the power some past event holds over it. I knew what it was. I knew what it was. It ran deep, deeper than Black, deeper than a suicide off a valley.
Life has a funny way of turning itself on you.
Put yourself on the line, and don't be afraid to get hurt. Didn't that come from me? I did, as I always do, and today, I got hit by a train.
It ran too deep, too far back, to a place before the Blackness began. And when the Tiny incident pulled the trigger on an unexpectedly loaded gun, it surprised her, and everyone else there. It wasn't about what happened today. It was about what it collided into, what it broke. Maybe if you had sat by me on the train home, you would have understood a little better, what it was you didn't mean to break.
She allowed the tears only because she remembered what L had told her, that you have to let it out, that the reason for the Blackness before was that she never let the sadness out. She kept it inside, kept things in bottles, paintings, writings, but never used her Voice. The Tiny incident happened during a rehearsal for a play she was acting in today, when lines were cut, Voices removed. It wasn't the incident itself, but what it collided into, what it broke. It ran too deep, too far back, to a place before the Blackness began.
So she sat on the train seat, crying, face and neck aching through and through. It was the kind of crying that is not legal on clean, efficient, proper train carriages. It is the kind of crying that is only legal at church.
An angel came on board the carriage, sat beside her, and gave her tissue.
Out of all the people who saw what happened today, only you, Ordinary Angel, understood. It was the kind of crying only legal at church. You were a middle-aged, bespectacled ordinary angel with a receding hairline. With tissue and God's love.
What happened next touched me beyond description- you did what I do for strangers, what I have been doing, what I would have done if I had seen someone grieving on a blue plastic seat on a train carriage. You gave me a tiny booklet, something about God's forgiveness, and a little note with your name and number. And then you placed a small bottle of Evian water on my lap. In that Moment, you felt for me.
You did what I do for people. You reached out. You bridged the Fragile Gap. For me.
I was still undone, with snot all over myself, face and neck still aching. And then I took out a little card from my bag, from my stash of little cards I always carry around just in case a Stranger or a friend needs a note, a verbal hug. And then I wrote "Thank you. Thank you for giving out God's love," and left you the address of this space.
I want to thank you for bridging the Fragile Gap, for being brave to feel for me. It was first tissue, then a booklet, and a note, then a few very gentle words before I left you. Thank you for bridging that space, for reaching out, for putting yourself on the line you drew for me, from your heart to mine.
I thought I was done, thought the crying was done after the Blackness became light. But we are never done, we will never fully arrive, I think. Life is a journey from one station to the next, and just when we think we've reached the end, reached the terminal, we find ourselves going back to the start, where it all began. Some things, you have to re-grieve in order to let go. Re-grieve in different places so you can let go of it, in places you never even knew existed, grow up, become stronger.
But, she still needs to find her Voice. Why is her mouth always being stolen? In A Taste of Rainbow, an unprotected little girl loses her mouth.
Why does she keep losing things.
Ordinary angel, thank you for reaching out today. For drawing a line for her across a Fragile Gap, for standing on the line with her.
Train rides are special journeys.
"She searched high and low, but still, she could not find her mouth."
- A Taste of Rainbow
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