I look toward the darkening sky
As evening begins to gather,
Layers of pale blue, soft gray,
And rose spilling across the horizon,
Colors so gentle
They seem to beg me,
Set it down.
Set aside the fear that has wrapped itself
Around me like a python,
Tightening its grip
Until even my heart forgets
How to breathe.
Fear is an evil thing
When it takes up residence
Inside the mind.
It comes in the waking hours
Without invitation,
Turning ordinary thoughts into daggers,
Each one sharpened against the spirit.
A thought becomes another thought,
Then another,
Until they EXPLODE like fragments
Of glass scattering through my mind,
Pushing reality aside
Until there is no room
For hope to enter.
My heart beats faster.
My pulse thickens.
My body listens to dangers
That may not even exist.
And somewhere along the way,
Happiness quietly slips away,
Looking for a place
Where fear cannot find it.
I wonder sometimes
If fear knows my name.
It seems to.
It waits for me in the morning,
Patiently standing at the edge of consciousness,
Waiting for my first breath,
My first thought,
My first awareness that I am awake.
Only in sleep does fear seem to leave me.
There, for a few precious hours,
It wanders somewhere else,
And I am allowed to simply be.
But morning comes.
And with the sunrise comes the familiar weight.
The tightening.
The questions.
The endless what-ifs.
ADVERTISEMENT
If only I could hear a voice above the noise:
Not another warning,
Not another prediction,
Not another reason to be afraid,
But the quietest words a frightened heart
Could ever hear:
You are safe.
Nothing will harm you.
You do not have to carry this alone.
Rest.
Or the simplest touch, an outstretched hand,
letting me know I am not alone.
A hand upon my shoulder, allowing the light of hope
To enter my soul.
And maybe, for just a moment,
The sky would become enough.
The rose would soften into blue.
The gray would drift away.
And I would remember that fear may visit me,
But it does not own me.
It may tighten its grip,
But I am still breathing.
Still here.
Still reaching for the light.
Still capable of hope
And somewhere beyond the last colors
Of sunset, I believe
There is a hand reaching out to me,
Helping to steady my troubled heart.
Is it you reaching out your hand?
Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.
