Though I May Never Know Your Name

My psyche, or perhaps more accurately my spirit is bereft and cluttered with the shattered glass and twisted metal that now lies far behind us in a desolate junk yard… small bits embedded in my skin a constant reminder. The sun now spreads glorious warmth across my shoulders as I sit on my back deck drawing strength from nature’s pure abundance. The raging heat of summer finally past, two days of rain cleansed the earth and it is ready, even eager to reveal its generosity.

I am in one piece, as is my beloved…I was so frightened…sitting beside him in our metal cocoon watching the blood run down his face wondering how deep the lacerations, how severe the damage, praying that I would not lose him. I cared little about myself.  He spoke calming words to me, seeing the panic rise in my face, typically indifferent to his own condition – it did not matter to him – only my well-being mattered. We were a perfect match reaching out ~ touching the face of the other ~ locking eyes searching for understanding and strength.

The panic rose in my throat, as the spinning, tumbling dream registered as reality and I caught a glimpse of my hand – bleeding and mangled – I could bear anything but I could not bear the loss of my ability to form words on a page – to return to the painful solitude of being locked inside myself once again unable to speak my truth. That would be far worse than death.

The tightness in my chest intensified as the Frenchman tore away a bit of the plastic shade that fell quickly to protect us.  He spoke to me in words I didn’t recognize but I understood his intent.  He was there to help until the EMTs arrived. I did not consider at the time the risk he was taking to climb into our mangled tomb as we waited, a helpless target in the middle of a highway saturated with speeding vehicles of all sizes and shapes…in the blinding rain.

Thank you Frenchman ~ I will probably never know your name but I will remember the sound of your voice as you bandaged my hand and then crawled in the back seat behind me so you could place your arms around my shoulders and comfort me as the panic rose steadily. I lost touch with you when I lost consciousness.

Scott and I are so grateful for all the wonderful people who have reached out to us throughout this difficult period. We are truly blessed.  My words on a page are the only way I know to heal the inner turmoil that remains as my body does its part to heal. So I will probably continue to write, to tell the story as I am able. It’s a slow process, the typing with one hand, but it slows my thinking both calming me and affording me the time to choose my words carefully. Thank you for listening.