For the most part of my life I have had a silent therapist, a celestial being that was a gift of faith from many years ago, when Mama on her death bed asked me to make a wish and all I could say was that I wanted her back. She had insisted that if she could grant that, it would defeat the purpose of granting the wish in the first place. After a long silence that filled the room, and extended, reaching deep into the recesses of my mind - peace, I had said, peace of mind.
I didn't think it had meant anything at the time, but Peace came soon enough, a week after Mama's death, silent as a church mouse, subtle and yet fierce. It was always as though he was there and he was not, all at once. He always wore an Immaculate robe and appeared whenever I was down. I would speak and tell him of my troubles and he would listen. He nodded occasionally in understanding whenever I said things I wanted him to understand, he seemed weightless and yet firm, capable of carrying all my deepest burdens and yet coming back for more. But the more I told peace things I would never tell a soul till my death day, my dependence on him grew.
I didn't like to think that I would never be able to have confidence in myself, enough to resolve my own emotional troubles, but my truth stared me right in the face each time he came back, for yet another listening session.
At a point I tried to dissuade him from coming. I kept my emotions bottled and never allowed myself slip into depression. I didn't see him for a long time. But one day I woke up and found him standing in my room staring down at me. I should have felt fear, it is after all frightening to see an uninvited person in one's room upon waking up. But I had gotten too used to his calm demeanor and harmless smile to develop even the slightest shred of fear for him. Instead I queried him ;
"Why are you here? "
He looked down.
"why are you here?"
He said nothing.
"I don't recall inviting you today!"
I shouted, my patience had ran out. Then I made to climb out of bed to approach him, and in the brief seconds between my raising the sheet and climbing down, he was gone. I never saw him again.
I have taken to writing on my diary, as though Peace were the one listening. And each time I write, I tell him how much life has progressed since we last saw, how stronger I had become a how much I have grown, I will tell him of my heartbreak with Gina, and how much I wished he had been there at the time to encourage me and remind me that there was still life, and time. I will tell him of the strong emotions I often had but found no way of expressing, of emotions I felt were best understood in the warm comfort of shared silence, of a longing too deep and complex to ever fully be sated , and of hope that one day, hopefully before I die, that I would get to see him again.
