A thread unravels from the edges of her old shirt in the dryer and winds tightly around the cuff of a stray sock, collecting bits of lint like a magnet. Cupping it in her hands, she decides it looks more like a ball of yarn she accidentally threw in the dryer than a sock; an apt metaphor for her life.
Lately, she is a tangled collection of incomplete thoughts, unfinished sentences, and curious questions that threaten to strangle her inner voice. Grasping her purse dangling from a hook in the kitchen with one hand, she tosses the sock on top of the laundry heap with the other and drives to the beach while her family sleeps. A brisk walk along the sea is good for sorting out the knots.
The sandy landscape of the shore looks different at morning tide giving hints of the unseen battlefield raging in the dark waters beneath, like the ebb and flow of pieces of her floating to the surface. Today, starfish scatter among stray shells; their arms curl up toward the sun. As she steps over their remains, her heart reaches to the Light too, like a woman longs for the sign of her lover’s return on the horizon, the warmth of his familiar embrace.
But today He seems distant. She writes letters in her thoughts; a series of questions pervading hallowed space, knowing His answers may be prolonged. And she resolves herself to it.
She admits: I don’t know how to parent teenagers; the landscape of their lives is different today than it was even last week. And why do I feel like I’m losing my voice? The cadence that sings of you in lyrical melodies now hums shallow, void of eloquence. I fear you’ve left me standing alone on the shore without a life boat. How long until you return?
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