Runaway

It was a normal, joyful night. We went to see a movie... A very good movie. We were happy. We were laughing. 

I had forgotten. The deep, aching pain had retreated so far into the distance that I didn't feel it anymore. I thought it was gone for good. 

I had announced recovery to my friends, had started seeing again. Not just viewing the world through the smoky red haze of pain, but really seeing. Colors has returned to my vision. Food tasted of itself rather than of ash. I could smile again.

And people had noticed. Friends told me I was happier. They liked my new, joyful outlook.

And that night I wasn't even thinking about it. I had removed the bandage and only a light scar remained, easily dismissed and forgotten.

But then, like a knife twisted into the wound which had just healed, there he was. 

My conversation was cut short. My countenance turned to panic.

I ran.

On swift heels I ran out to the parking lot, trying to look fine, healthy, happy, beautiful. But all the while my heart was in panic, fleeing faster than my feet could carry me. 

 I am a runaway.

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This morning I sit in a shady spot and meditate. Two men come and sit near me, but one of them absentmindedly lays his arm in a spot of bird droppings. He spills his water.

"I don't know what's worse," he says angrily. "The bird shit, or that." He shakes water from his pants.

He walks away and the ice begins to melt. He ran away. 

Minutes pass. Slowly sparrows and starlings approach. And the water left become a pond for the birds. First they sip gingerly. Then they drink deeply, unaware of the drama that ensued. Unaware that their own filth, left on the arm of a chair, indirectly provided the blessing of this water.

I can only hope that the spilt water of my broken heart becomes a refreshing fountain for those who come after.