Whispers

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

She slips, undaunted, through the veiled door of Truth, surveying the labyrinth of her life.

My sister is the one who had written the book.  Borne of the same womb, we were blessed with a glorious time together.  But I was bewildered, seeing myself in the memoir, portrayed as if I had no mind, as if my world view was askew, defined as mentally unsound. The judgment was harsh, distorting my latent hopes and dreams.

When my father was taken I wailed, clinging to his weathered overalls.  What did my sister whisper about him? My mother was close-mouthed.  The Truth would not be revealed and as time rocked me to sleep,  the past was torn and twisted into a song I no longer could sing.

No one told the Truth.  The Truth fluttered like a tiny bird lost over the sweep of the plains. Truth disappeared into a starry night’s quilt of grief and misunderstanding and as time collapsed, all of her meaning flew.

As a child, I had a doll, a connection with my happy home. I changed her clothes lovingly, thoughtfully dressing her in new- born baby clothes, sewing tiny buttons on her dresses and fastening even tinier eyelets on her shoes.  

When the news exploded in our sun-baked town, golden wheat surrounded, my mother fled and I cradled the doll wistfully, quietly dressing and undressing her, lost in the Truth/unTruth of our lives, singing soft lullabies in the train car (was my father on the train?)while I watched the plains spin into rolling hills, as trees burst forth blanketing  the sweet, grassy earth.  

Soon the ground was smothered by mountainous cities, caverns of confusion.  My doll and I sat quietly, watching, watching, telling one another tales of momentous happenings in the stifling noisy crowds. My mother fed me, fed me stories and nourishment, stories upon stories. “ THIS is the story,” she’d whisper. “ THIS is what we say – forever and forever,” eyes brimming with tears,” THIS is what we say.”

Where, I wondered, are my sisters?  Where is my dear daddy,  the bestest railroad engineer in the whole world?  Where are my bunnies?  Where is my dolly’s bed?  Can we walk down the dusty road to town again?  Can we walk and get some candy?  Why did the policeman take my daddy and if the policeman took him, why does mama say he ran away? “ THIS will be the Truth from now on,” she says, “THIS is what we say”.

 My sister spins softly away.  I want to go back to my sweet home.  But she won’t go home.  She won’t go.

The years drifted by and though we found a home, we lost ourselves. Now, winging aloft, no longer earth bound, I have come to understand what the Truth might be.  It’s not the whole Truth.  You’d have to be able to splice words and history, beliefs and deeply held myths together  to arrive  at anything resembling a Truth for what had dissolved  our family. I hope the children keep my pictures , my doll, my striving to know. They have heard my words of doubt, aware that I did and did not believe.

Still I wish to see my sister again, to embrace her without fear, to hug my mama with complete abandon, to find my daddy.

 My soul sings with liberation from the tunnels of lies and worldly distortions, embracing  a bright and greening hope.