"Variations" by Daniel Romo
Variations
You think when it rains the water’s too heavy to absorb and pours down
upon your neck in an effort to snap in half what’s left of a season in which
you can’t tell if you’re flailing in the midst of drowning, or dying of thirst
during the famine, but either way, funeral arrangements must be made by
the one you’ve confided in when your hands were raised in some form of
surrender. We coddle hurt and nurture it as if the plural form of the word is
the lethal version, when anyone whose flesh and bones have ever ached knows
less is always more. How often we sit alone when our brokenness and self-pity
align. How frequently woe-ing is me-ing requires the opposite of illumination
to grow. It crosses your mind why pain doesn’t exist in moderation, how the
core of a man can be so easily lead by an array of answers that are all incorrect.
The most difficult comprehension questions aren’t posed by a professor of a
subject you’ve never heard of, but by yourself and maybe it’s not a case of
understanding everything as much as it is a case of everything understanding
you. I visited a new church and learned there are bag checks at the door and
snipers on the rooftops and I’m wondering if bullets raining down upon a man
trying to harm a pastor or parishioners is mentioned in the Book of Revelations.
I suppose it all comes down personal preference. Would you rather walk by a
beautiful, plastic orchid sitting in the center of your coffee table that requires
closer examination for any guest to know it’s not real, or would you prefer to
close your eyes and breathe in the scent of what’s left of a once-striking flower
whose now-browning petals used to be such a divine royal purple, you’d have
thought
you were inhaling a whole kingdom.
Photo Credit: Staff