I know all about you.
(The scariest phrase ever written.)
I know all about you.
(Please don’t tell anyone.)
The morning broke gray and flat. Sheera nuzzled her wet nose into my warm thigh. Shock! Too cold! I shoved her aside.
She stared at me, eyes watery with hurt, all-knowing, black and deep as the ocean. Long furry ears tilted just so.
“I’m sorry, my girl,” I said. She wagged the tip of her bushy white tail, hopeful but guarded.
It’s dangerous to hope too much. Things won’t work out the way you’ve planned. The one you thought loved you, would keep you safe, turns on you in a moment of selfishness. Showing his true colors. Everyone has a true self inside, hidden from the world. This life is about hiding–showing just enough to get by, but no more. Too much pushes people away.
That’s what Sheera’s tail wag was about. Hopeful, but not too hopeful. Keeping herself safe, guarded.
I reach a hand out from under the warm covers and pat her bushy white head. I feel the knobby bone protruding from the top of her skull that fits in my cupped hand just so. Comforting, that knob of pressure pushing into my palm.
She sighs, still and present.
I should get up. Start my day. Feed her, take her for a walk.
The pressure builds in my stomach, in my chest–overactive butterflies, a weight pulling me down like a magnet trying to stick me to my bed.
Every day is the same:
Good morning mountains, patches of snow bluegraypurple against a whitegray sky. Peaceful, just for a second, content to have my friend the mountain always there. Ever-changing but steady. Then, reality bursts in. I can’t stay here all day. I have responsibilities. The ever-present knot in my right neckshoulder muscle squeezes up, tingles. A mass of messy gray tornadoyarnsteelwool. It reminds me of my obligations. To myself. To Sheera. Her cold, prodding nose doesn’t help.
“Come on,” she says. “get up. We have things to do.”
Or, she would, if she were a child.
The stabbing, breaking, unending pain at the thought of the child. I can’t bear it. To close my eyes is to sink into the pain. The knot above my shoulder swells so that it might burst out of my skin. It’s a burning red gray ball the size of my fist trying so hard to keep me contained.
I can’t. I throw off the covers, petrified that the mess of my insides will overtake me, engulf me in flames.
“Come on, girl,” I say.
Sheera jumps off the bed and plods downstairs. I hear her claws lightly tapping across the floor, stopping to wait.
For me.
“I’m coming,” I sigh.
~~~~~~
Out on the sidewalk, the snow is grayblackbrown slush. Sheera plods beside me, never pulling at her leash, always matching my stride. One foot in front of the other.
We pick up the pace, speed along–with purpose. The faster I go, the more wound up I feel. I walk faster, power walk, to outpace and leave behind the mess inside me. I walk with purpose, that shield of everythingisfineI’mgoodhowareyou slowly rising up to protect me from the wondering, questioning neighbors and strangers who pass us on the sidewalk, proudly displaying their own shields so we might never truly know each other.