By Cheryl
“Kintsugi”
He always answers the call.
If the doorbell rings, he opens the door.
If the phone vibrates, he reaches for it even if it’s robo.
If his heart knocks the tired song of what’s next, he waits for the trill to die down, deep in his throat, and slowly moves towards it, compelled.
When I ask him if 4, 5, 6 painters and 2, 3, 4 tree trimmers invading our space all at the same time along with a cacophony of two scared barky little chickens, our pups, troubles him, he says no and means it. He simply attends to the task.
Why can’t I?
After all, it’s what I do for work. I help the person in front of me. Maybe I should stand in front of a mirror and ask the reflection with a cheerful smile: How can I help you?
Like the artist, I seam the broken places, repair the damage, and trace the golden lines of my face with my fingers. My scarred history showing through.
And maybe, finally, like him, the trill deep down inside my heart will not arrest in place but will embrace the life that’s left.