I thought it must have been sticky pink bubble gum stuck down in the foundation of my throat, but the pressure rose and rose until there was something I could imagine seeing in the mirror when the light was just right. Conveniently a click away, I messaged one after another of the many good doctors looking for connection but was blocked and ignored with unerring vacillation, as if indecisive hope for something better were a communal responsibility wielded against my own congenital disorder. Shamed, I drove to my childhood home to have my mother nurse me like the boy I fear I’ve never aged beyond.
She says that she can see a pointed and yielding green, no electric pink, like a thing that might grow out of the earth of man. Whatever is rooted there would do well to heed the season. The divine spark must be warm enough to fool immature seeds from man’s heart into February cold. Fresher breath is there, but only as fresh as it is cold and crisp and deadly. Wait, silly shoot, until warmer winds beckon you to a more forgiving day. Then love may have stretched out from its den, bathing in speckled rays and soft shadows. Wait, for my sake and yours.
But impatience continues to creep up as I try hard to sip reality around expanding dreams. Soon, and too soon, the bud blossoms in infinite ranuncular unfolding. Its pink is softer and more natural than the synthetic fertilizer that will take seven more years to digest. It pushes wider and wider, cutting off my airway. The center spreads until it is no longer the center, and each sliver boasts blooming life from a dust that prematurely will return to dust.
Harvest the flowers to entertain women with vases on the stand by the door and at the center of the table and near the edge of the grand piano where evenings might be ended or, with unfortunate luck, prolonged. Thin the growth and share the cuttings with all who promise to try and keep something so precious alive as long as they might or until they forget. Do what must be done to keep breathing while this invasive desire stays rooted in the chest. Ignore the silent, green snake that attends the new garden.
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Fear not, man, the license you’ve claimed for self-seeking self-gratifying self-realizing self-relying growth. The soil and seed, the water and sunlight, the free photosynthetic energy that ripples up and down the stem are all a grace upon grace, empowering hope beyond hope, selfless and pure in its God-given form. Your plant-blindness kept you from knowing the true species of that which grows within you. Be assured that there is nothing so thorny and twisted that did not receive life from Life. The living is Mine, and though yours for a time, I will a return. Trust and grow patiently, faithfully.
This, even this, can be redeemed. Even this may be made well. Fear Me only, and be redeemed.