by ottersong
© 1999 ottersong, all rights reserved
The wall had always been there, natural to her life as the intake of air. Details, the hows and whys of it were no longer important. Closer inspection would have revealed markings, lines, scars... hieroglyphics of abuse writ upon skin and psyche, but the only important clue she needed was the feeling of safety the wall afforded. There was loneliness, too...
At the age of 50, Pat found herself in therapy. After years of lolling in the sun... seeking warmth and reaping only sunburn, it was time to find reasons. The therapist said, "The wall is of your making and has been your protection and prison. If the wall is to come down, it is you who must do it."
She half-heartedly chipped away at it for a time, then quit. Pat thought she would have to re-experience the pain of the building in order to dissemble the wall. Then it occurred to her that to acknowledge a thing's existence did not mean to bear the emotion of it's creation. She did not have to feel the shovel slicing the earth in order to appreciate the newly planted tree. Usually, one merely said, "What a strong looking tree...".
Her aged Mother absorbed a great deal of her time. Pat's grandson and children were active parts of her life, and an abortive attempt at University had been cut short by bad health and a grandson in a full body cast. Her Mother, since a mastectomy, lived in mortal terror of anything and everything and had developed basal cell carcinoma, a nasty form of skin cancer. One visit to the dermatologist led to an unusual acquisition in Pat's life.
Mother was a "good girl" (sigh) at the doctor's office, so was entitled to dinner at the restaurant of her choice. They both liked "Ye Olde College Inn" so it was with happy hearts they sought some "good old down home food". After seating the Mother, Pat made her way to the ladies room and while on her way back, noticed paintings hanging on the walls of a small dining room just off the main room. They were delightful, spanning every level of expertise and school of art. The proprietor had allowed art students to hang their works and sell them.
Pat glided happily past one after another until one of them stopped her in mid-step. It was a wall. The gray-brown wall occupied most of the canvas, with small space at the bottom for lustrous deep-green grass. The top was filled with glossy leaves from an unseen tree that covered the upper edge with mystery. But the miracle was a breach in the wall as if cloven with a mighty axe, leaving a vee shaped opening. Through that mud-gray wall could be seen a garden alive with sunshine sparkling on pale green plants. Pat had found her map through hostile territory. Some sweet innocent aspiring painter had handed her what all of psychiatry could not, a clear picture of her quest.
The painting wore a price tag... $50... Pat's heart leapt... $50 !!!!!! Quickly paying the cashier for her wall (yes, Her Wall) she joined the Mother, who by now was assuaging her mortal fears "a la carte". The Mother looked up from chicken-fried steak and mumbled, "That's pretty." Pat sat quietly for a moment, realizing her knees were weak. She sat holding the rosetta stone for her life, sipping now cold coffee, and straining to see through the dust of a crumbling wall, and answered "Yes, isn't it?"
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by ottersong 8/4/99