An Impenetrable Shell

I sat in my room, alone. As I usually did. Teetering on the edge of the bed. Was I going to fall backwards or get up and do something to distract my mind? I could never decide, as usual. So I sat and brushed my hair with my mother's old brush. I brushed and brushed and brushed until my hair was silky smooth and my arm was shaking with fatigue. Even then I kept brushing. My nose was scrunched up, my eyes squinted, my mouth a thin line. I waited patiently for the tears to come, to drip down my face and let all the sadness inside me out. I waited to deflate like a taut balloon. Instead, I felt anger building inside of me. The hard shell around my heart growing thicker and more impenetrable. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the tears to come, willing the dam to crack and the gallons of water behind it to surge forth. I brushed and brushed. Nothing happened. The tears failed me again. And once again I sunk into exhaustion, my eyes still dry and my heart still hardened with a fury that would never leave me alone no matter how hard I tried to cry.

by elisabeth

Home

Home is a special thing. It is the roots of family. You cannot touch it or see it or hear it or smell it or even taste it, but it is there. If you take a moment and stop whatever you are doing, you can feel Home inside of you. It is a lovely thing; an everlasting, binding contract between a group of people that makes them a family. It keeps them together through thick and thin, though not always physically. You may be out of touch with your family or you may feel as if you do not love them, but deep down inside I know you do. There is and will always be a bright spark within your soul that links you to your Home. Your family may not be with you, but they are there. A house is usually a shell or case for Home. It protects Home and keeps it safe. Home does not need a house, though. It is strong enough to survive without one. A house can also be devoid of Home, an empty shell without life, without joy. Home does not need to stay in one place, in one house. It moves with the flow of the family. Every time I cross the threshold of my house, a soft warmth blossoms inside my chest and spreads to my fingers and toes. A sigh of relief. Home. I’ve made it back again, safe and sound. At the center of Home is love; a rock-hard foundation that can survive eons of grief and millenniums of misunderstanding. Not that I would ever or could ever wish that upon a Home. Home is like a delicate flower. Without constant tender, loving care it will wilt and one by one the petals will drop off; although, it is not altogether impossible to coax back to life again. Some must work hard to preserve house and Home, while to others it comes more naturally. All in all, home is a thing that should never be forgotten or taken for granted, for someday you may find that it is the only thing you have left to hold on to. It is a more priceless thing than anything else you will ever behold in this world. And I feel for those who have never seemed to find it.

by elisabeth

dedicated to abigail