The fabric

of my inner life

became unwoven

the other night.

 

It had been going on for weeks

until the last string

came undone.

 

It started with food,

or a lack of it.

I lacked an appetite;

had an empty stomach.

 

Prayer became an echo

of a voice i’d forgotten-

I could summon no words

despite the beauty of autumn.

 

I’d sleep through the day;

the night was a jail cell.

Visions and nightmares

made the dark a living hell.

 

The strings I’m made of

became dangerously loose-

when I abandoned prayer,

my body abandoned me.

 

To the emergency room I went

my father, mother, and me-

I’m screaming in the back seat

a wretched sight to see.

 

Awake for 36 hours,

my legs, solid as soup.

They had to help me walk

into the emergency room-

a crying, desperate group.

 

There was my father,

like a giant oak tree-

he tried to put my strings together

but he lacked the needles and the mastery.

 

My inner life is mine

and when it’s empty it’s because of me.

The mind effects the body.

In my case, mercilessly.

 

My dad and I

were never so close

as when we whispered together

in the hospital room-

 

“You’re okay,” he said,

and I’d repeat it back to him.

The air in the room became lighter,

more breathable and thin.

 

I’d reach for his elbow

and it was there.

Not like in my youth

when he had his affair.

 

The life that he and his wife wove

was coming undone.

Still, he stood steadfast

by his possibly-dying son.

 

My limbs were like limbs

caught in a hurricane;

all of me was flailing

in the midst of psychic pain.

 

My lips forgot

how to form words-

as the rest of me

clawed upwards in the bed.

 

I remember hearing voices

in my head that weren’t mine.

this would happen at night;

no, not a good sign.

 

They were sharp and female,

barking at me.

I’d twist away from them,

but sleep was a mockery.

 

Back to the emergency room

and my stoic dad.

“I need your presence, not your words,”

is what I said.

 

I leaned on him,

his elbow a sharp pillow.

and ever so slowly

things started to mellow.

 

As my strings began to cross one another

into some kind of right design,

I saw my father down the hall:

head in his hands,

he couldn’t stop cryin’.

 

Some days later

on a ride back from maine-

I thought I’d try prayer again,

even if in vain.

 

And on I-95

headed south to Waltham,

I said the ‘third step prayer’

and became, again, who I am.

 

A soothing soft warmth

fell upon this man.

I was safe again,

In Christ I am.

 

He wove me in warmth

and tender bright colors-

that I would serve him

and many others.

 

It’s not my time yet

and I feel whole and healthy.

Please bring this peace to my father;

he may need it more than me.