Finding Peace

Peace.
I feel her creeping up my body and warming my chest.
The feeling is so lovingly threading a needle,
with the strongest of apologetic regret she has.
She gathers up all the splintered pieces
and touches their jagged edges,
one by one,
angle by sharp angle,
until her soothing brush calms their burning sadness.

She ever so gently takes them into her experienced hand
and holds them.
Just holds them.
Nothing fancy. Nothing extreme.
Just holds them.
She listens to them.
Listens as their every tear hits the ground
and their every shudder rocks through their being.

The she tells them that it's enough.
She's held them so close to her own intake,
her own outtake,
that they stop torturing themselves.
They learn to breathe again.
They learn to live again.
She proves it's possible.

She doesn’t lie.
She makes sure they understand that it will hurt.
The recovery will be long and difficult,
but it will be possible.

When they are ready,
the tiny pieces of my shattered heart hold together.
they grasp each other with a strength
they thought they had lost.

While she runs her thread through them,
They cry.
They whimper.
They smile.
They know that these stitches will leave scars.
These stitches will bruise.
But these stitches will hold.
They will hold while the cracks of betrayal still show.
They will hold while the old drips away.
While the past that was once so destroyed
is taken over by a future that holds forgiveness.

These stitches will heal them.
No more broken.
No more bleeding.
No more pain.
Only thin lines that remind me
that I am still alive.
Because when she is gone,
that’s the only way to really find her.
Peace.