Wall of Glass by Deb Campbell
I tried.
I remember it so clearly, as if the moment had been branded into my heart. You in my arms, your hair softer than feathers against my chin. I kept my breath shallow as your body rose and fell to the music of my heartbeat. One hand lightly on your back, scared you might float from me if I didn’t anchor you. Or was it to anchor myself to you? I wanted to do this properly, to be the mum you needed.
But it became too much and I drifted. Drifted away from you. The pain as I watched you cry, holding out your hands to be held, to feel safe, serrated my heart. I tried to reach you. I really did. But a glass wall encircled me.
During the darkest hours, I willed myself to hold you tight, but as dawn arrived and with it your disappointment, I was too scared. Terrified of the pain my failure would ultimately bring. When I could no longer bear your heartbreak, I left.
And for a while, I coped by showing the world a version of myself. No more than a reflection on water. A two-dimensional image. Unfeeling. Shadowless. I couldn’t hide from your shadow though and alone, at night, I saw you, smelled you, heard your voice, and I ached.
When they told me you were ill, a scream ripped through me, shattering the glass into a trillion tiny pieces. I felt exposed and naked as grief, guilt and shame licked at every cell.
Fear dissolves into tears as I sit at your bedside watching you sleep, your curls damp against the crisp pillow, your small hand in mine, and whispering against your ear, I promise I’ll try again.
Living in South Gloucestershire, England, Deb juggles her part-time job with writing and shamanic healing.
art – zowiebray – Instagram
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a very touching piece