| Let me tell you a story...
A story about pictures in a box and the clothing that we wear. You once told me, "I never want to be one of those... in your box of pictures." To which I replied, "No, you never will, you are my special friend. Nothing will ever change that. Your picture will never be in that box. You mean something.”
I'll never forget the face that you wore; fear knitted in your eyes. I asked you, "What’s wrong?" And you revealed the insecurities that are stitched beneath your box.
You said in your heart, "I never want to be one of those…" And we laughed, but I knew your heart wept. It said, “I want to be more, more than all those pictures amount to be.” Like tattered clothing you feared to be opened, warn, used, stored, and forgotten. So I promised, with all my heart, I promised...
Promises were made, and you once said you would never hurt me again. And I fought so hard to put your picture in that box. You belonged in that box! How should I honour our memory, by the promise I made? To love is to sow my best, especially if you don’t reciprocate. Love is to esteem another above self-serving desires. To be a selfless Christ. Did I do that for you?
Did you do that for me?
Many times I've washed my hands, taken showers to change into something new. But the clothes never fit right any more. They all don’t fit right! "Have I lost weight, have I changed," I think to myself? And I can hate you for the clothing you give me... But can't.
You once promised, a certain blue and white flowered dress, you'd never use. All the sunshine twirls you displayed with that dress, you were so radiant! "Do you wear it," I asked you?" "I will never put it on! This dress was worn for you," you responded.
These clothes we wear are more than just shade for our nakedness, but knitted promises of the heart," I thought to myself. "Did I mean something to you?" Now I am one of the many shirts in your cupboard, taken out to be pined over with a fond but piercing glance?" That was a new nice shirt, but it’s only for boys to wear, never by a man,” you stated. "It’s not what wears good on me," you abruptly convinced yourself, as you quickly stuffed the shirt back in your cupboard.
No one sees you hide your picture in my box, when my eyes are turned, and you hoping I'll never forget the fitting.
The snapshots of our first meeting to the farewell of our last, are the pictures I wear painfully. But now I am the one in your box –trapped. Now I am the one who is fearful, insecure, used, and forgotten
I took your picture out today, and I willed myself to put your picture in that evil box. "One of the many, you’re nothing to me any more, our friendship is distant, gone," I repeated over and over. But the actions were thwarted by a hemmed Promise, My Promise. “One of a kind, never to be worn again! Love –I thought.”
In this box I placed my heart. I suppose that's why the clothes never fit any more.
I burned my clothes and buried that box today... But your pictures still remain, they always have. |
