Somebody’s Gethsemane

Haven’t you been a
confessional box at least once? A tissue paper? A shoulder for someone?Or even
a paper bag that calmed down a hyperventilating soul? And surely, you must have
had something to say to that person- a word of solace, a gem of wisdom or comfort
that must have consoled the sad spirit. But have you been anyone’s Gethsemane?
A garden where mankind sat and cried, praying to an unrelenting God and sweated
drops of blood. A place of rocks and utter sorrow. You were the breeze, the
trees, the grass beneath, the cricket on the pebble, the sparrow perched in her
nest; yet you could do nothing but stand and stare as if frozen by their tears.
Have you been their place to pour out all anguish and vent all frustration
without being able to find one word of consolation to offer in return? Have you
stood helpless on the outside looking in as a little child sobbed for his lost puppy, as a girl struggled
to get through a tough phase of peer pressure, as a boy bent under the sorrow
of having to go through awkward adolescence, as a widow labored with her
husband’s memories?

I stood watching as a
certain She fell in love. From then on Her body, heart and soul were his
acolytes. She lost Herself and became a part of him, a mere marionette whose
every thought, word and deed depended on Her saturnine lover’s mood swings. I
watched Her change from a voice to an echo. I heard Her saying She was nothing
more than a leaf in the gale, ripped apart by the frenzy but not wanting to
leave the dark storms. He was not a tyrant but he forgot the protocol of  trust. He shut the doors on Her, yet sat
waiting for Her on the other side. She became his reason and his argument. She
was the Why he was. She sang her swan song, yet remained there.  She was clinging on for him, not Herself. She
refused to leave because She couldn’t bear to see him walk alone, despite his
clear distaste for Her concern. His anger broke Her heart and still She held
on, knowing She was the only one who had the tolerance to stay. She is the
embodiment of Gethsemane, not understanding completely, not really wanting to
know, seeking a way in, feeling for him, remaining an empathizing outsider.

I become helpless
Gethsemane too. I sit and stare as She moves on, like a moth to a blazing
flame. He will be the end of Her, and She burns Her wings in this knowledge.
She Knows, and yet…

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