Stepping On Cracks

Luanne Stevenson

What is it about the rain? Knocking on my bedroom window, like a desperate lover, begging for someone to listen to his sad song. Damn him for waking me! How I hate his persistent tapping. Sleep is the only antidote for what ails me, but today the rain seems determined to rob me blind, stealing this new found freedom.

Rubbing my eyes, I blink at the soft filtering light, streaming in through loosely, drawn curtains. Then it hits me ; that familiar, sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. It's been waiting for me, lurking in early morning shadows. Daylight, now my enemy, makes every betrayal and broken promise more visible.

The tapping on the window continues. I try to ignore it, roll over, and tightly wrap the Irish wool cover around my bare skin. Lying still, I listen to the rain hitting black shingles, and the melody becomes hypnotic. I recognize the familiar song. It has visited me before, but today, its gentle rhythm brings comfort, the way a mother's humming quiets a newborn. For a brief moment, I feel content, serenaded by nature's lullaby.

Wrestling the tightrope between sleep and consciousness, my mind wanders. Mental snapshots share images of a skinny, small girl, jumping in mud puddles and hot, summer days playing at a seashore cottage. In the shade of a backyard willow tree, the same little girl builds primitive forts, made out of lawn chairs and beach towels.

"Every little girl knows love. It is only her capacity to suffer because of it that increases.”

~Fancoise Sagan, French author

Innocence, a time of simplicity, is when happiness means catching fireflies in glass jelly jars, on muggy, summer afternoons. Sorrow means not finding a quarter, in time to stop the ice cream man's truck. Back then, I was convinced a handsome prince would find me. I never questioned the possibility of my life not being filled with sweet lollipops and sunshine.

Every day, on my way home from school, I skipped down a crooked dirt path that lead to my family's front porch. I made sure never to step on cracks, for that would bring bad luck. Suddenly, my memories are interrupted by a torrential downpour. I begin to feel the coldness of my lonely king sized bed. Once again, I pull my bed covers up, just enough to feel the wool itch my chin, and without warning, I'm reminded of him, on the days he didn't shave. Like a bucket of raindrops, the weight of my heartache sweeps me away in a fast moving emotional current. The magnitude of its power is frightening. Like a playground bully, ignoring pathetic pleas to be left alone, it chokes, taunts, and refuses to leave me. Helpless, I knew It was time to raise the white flag and surrender.

Exactly two months after he left, I allowed myself to cry. Sobbing, like a baby, a strange, soft whisper was vaguely audible. It was that little girl, calling me, still stubborn and headstrong, refusing to be drowned out by the storm. Like secrets whispered in the schoolyard, her message distracted me. Slowly, I composed myself. I wanted to hear what she had to say. With the honesty of a child , but the wisdom of a grown woman, she shared her powerful message with me:

"Tread softly, gently. Allow yourself to grieve, but within reason. Don't be overindulgent. Stand tall, walk proudly, and refuse to let your spirit be broken. Spend time with the people you love, pray every day, and never forget to take care of yourself. Keep busy, move forward, live one day at a time. Today, take baby steps if you need to, but remember. In time, you will travel this road filled with cracks, swiftly, with the grace and beauty of a wild stallion, roaming free in a green open field. So, hold on my friend and be strong. You don't need a handsome prince to rescue you. Slay your own dragons and learn to love yourself more. Nurture the little girl inside you. Ask her to show you how easy it is to play and dance with a light heart.

Never stop looking for rainbows.