Four Marbles

Four Marbles (March 2019, Week 2, Day 4)

Four marbles in a soft hand. Each has its own color and pattern. One is filled with swirls of blue dancing around each other. One is red through and through as if it had been cut from the center of the earth. One has tiny green dots all over, each dot identical to the others. One is half black and half white, a perfect line down the center where the colors divide. All share the same weight and glossy finish. They are the same and different and together and separate all at the same time, and all in the soft hand. 

The soft hand cradles the marbles. The thumb chooses a marble at random to push up to the fingers, to roll back and forth over the ridges, to squeeze just a bit before releasing it back into the palm to join the others. The hand keeps the marbles in motion, just a bit, thanks to a shake that comes from the arm above.

The arms remember the movements of yesterday. The bending and straightening as the activity demanded. The games that were played with the marbles – more marbles than are in the soft hand now. The arm that is tense, ready to spring into action, as soon as it gets a message from the brain up above. 

The brain that is struggling to process it all. The marbles in the hand, the hardness of the floor beneath the hand, the pain that is threatening to take over. The brain has a job – it must keep the body alive. 

The body of a woman, as soft as the hand and just as shakey. A body that has seen its share of life and then some. A body wrapped in only a bathrobe, lying on the kitchen floor, playing host to a broken heart, playing with marbles. A body that shouldn’t have been left alone to stare into space with tear-filled eyes. 

Eyes of the woman that will not close. Large eyes that are surrounded by smooth skin and long lashes. Brown eyes, with little flecks of gold. They are open and have been and will be for much time to come. Eyes that search for something, anything, that will make sense of the feelings roiling inside her. Eyes that see the emptiness of the room. Eyes that see the marbles and make the heart hurt.

A heart that beats, in spite of the pain.  A heart that is broken into a thousand sharp pieces that are somehow still working together. A heart that forces the brain to keep going, the body to survive. It beats and beats, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. The heart that beats at the core of the woman, keeping her here though she longs for release. A heart that is following the commands of the brain over the pull of the feelings.

The feelings that are the source. The reason. The who and the how. The feelings that put the marbles into the soft hand.