When She Writes

Dee Gaines, Ph.D.

She is writing it in simple segments. Little notes here and there. Little pieces of delicate soul sticking to notebooks, napkins, flowing sheets. I read them here and there. She even shows me sometimes. I cannot contain them. I cannot contain the pain. The words are beautiful yet painful. I am drawn to the beauty but injured by the horror. I wish and wish that I could just intellectually read it, perhaps just enjoy the poetry. Even intelligently make a positive comment. But the pain is glaring out of the papers and I cannot ignore its blinding strength. 

I want to say something. I am sorry life served you this cold dish. I am sorry your efforts did not yield what your heart desired. I am so sorry no one saw your beauty like I do. I am so sorry you did not get to use your amazing talent in the way people recognize, people give awards to, people pay to experience. 

I am so sorry the love of your life did not love you back the way you deserve. I am sorry he did not see your beauty and did not handle it with the gentle gloves that would have protected it. 

But her writing, her writing keeps yelling hope and intelligence. It insists on showing me how wide her heart is, how loving she is, how despite it all she sees beauty in a dark, dark place. 

So I am in awe. And I don’t say a thing. I don’t scream for her injustice. I don’t point at the darkness and state its bottomless pit. I don’t analyze the wrongs and show them overweighing the rights. I pretend that I am not angry that things did not turn out the way she wanted. 

I focus on her incredible beauty and I concentrate on enjoying every minute of it. I comment intellectually and thoughtfully about the clearly superior art she displays so easily and effortlessly. I make her writing purposeful because it changed me. It must have made me a better person, just a little bit. 

And then, I suddenly see, that her face shows me joy.