She is always a mess when I see her
shivering in her damp brown coat
photo torn and page ripped along the edge
her voice a sound of distress
dark braids fall chaotic into her neck
uncombed threads hide the small scars on her cheeks
and I know that one day she’ll drink herself to death
but that’s why I love to see her
sometimes
here at the corner coffee shop
sitting at a small round table near the window
listening to the afternoon traffic stirring the sidewalk outside
and I know that to most I look worse than what she does
and that is why despite everything that comes and goes
on the streets out there
she always remains beautiful to me
and so does her ruined hands
unvarnished fingernails, roughly bitten off into the flesh
folding them tightly around the white coffee mug
staring at me over the rim
inhaling small apparitions of pale vapour
and I know that here in this quiet place
she and I, can let everything go
everything that disturbed us out there
finding some peace in listening to each other's nonsensical ramblings
watching each other at opposite sides of the table
watching each other sipping coffee
listening to each other's voices
and me
watching her folding hair
from her face
“I don’t know it all kido,” I say to her, “…but I do know we all keep our fair share of ghosts, monsters and daemons, that keep on crawling around in our brains, but there are angels too.”
She keeps her green eyes fixed on mine
not lowering the mug from her lips
“The ghosts are the things we did and who we were, that hurt us,” I say again, “…the monsters are the things that happened to us, and the daemons are the ones who did it to us,” and I reach for my coat pocket
remove a packet of cigarettes
watching her sweep another dark curl from her cheek
folding it gently into the cold fall behind her ear
I lift the smoke to my lips and strike a match
inhale
and let the white haze find its way to the ceiling
“Some have more ghosts, or more monsters, or more daemons than others. It all depends on how life threw us around, but we all hurt, in various degrees of intensity,” I say keeping my eyes on her
she lowers the mug from her lips
places it gently in front of her on the table
staring at the warm brew inside
“But they don’t go away…” she says in her whispering
and scarred voice
“No, they never do. They stay with us, right to the end. It’s no use to try and get rid of them. Just accept that they will always be around inside of you. The best is just to try and manage them in some way that works for you.”
“What do you mean?” She asks
lifting the mug to her lips again
“I mean, the best thing we can do is to just try and put them away somewhere, so they don’t keep on haunting us all day long. For everybody it’s different. For me, I have this boat that I dream up in my deepest thoughts. I imagine that’s it’s right there in front me. So when all those ghosts, and monsters, and daemons come around, I load them all onto that boat and cast her off. I imagine they just keep on sailing until I don’t see them no more. It works for a while. But I’ll wake again one morning, or just walk down the street, and guess what? They’ll all be standing right there again, gawking right back at me, and so it’s time to load them onto that boat again. It never stops. It’s a life-long effort that carries on until the day we’re gone. That’s how things go.”
She turns her eyes from me
finds the window
gazes through the glass
and her hair falls down onto her breast
she is always beautiful to me
even when she is damaged
she sees the cars and trucks moving along the street
watching feet and people passing the coffee shop
then turns to me again
and asks; “What about the angels?”
I take another drag on the cigarette; “They are the ones who keep on doing right to us. The ones who change the world for us; who do the small things that matter. The ones who do great deeds during the course of all the small struggles we face every day. For me, it's people like you.”
She smiles; “…I’m no angel!” she says
taking another sip of coffee
“You are one of the many angels I keep,” I say to her
and her eyes brighten
turning her smile to a near laughter; “What do you mean?”
she sweeps more hair from her eyes
and the emeralds inside of them find the hidden sun
“I mean this day started real bad for me, but you took the time to come here. You’re one of my angels. You walked through the rain, in a damp coat and came to sit right here, at this table with me; listening to me and sharing a cup of coffee; …to me that was great deed in the course of all the small struggles I face every day...”
Conrad Kruger van den Bergh (Copyright, 2019)
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