The Room I Called Peace

I had been arranging flowers

over a locked door,
calling the room peaceful.

Whenever something stirred beneath it,
I brought another lesson,
another vase.

How beautifully I understood
the hands that hurt me.
How quietly I asked my own
to stop trembling.

Then, one evening,
something ordinary made me laugh.

I laughed until the water shook,
until a flower slipped,
until the door
could no longer hold.

Out came the anger
with its bitten tongue.
The grief, still wearing
the clothes of that day.
The small, furious voice:
But it should not have happened.

For once,
I did not ask it
what it had come to teach me.

I sat on the floor.
I let the flowers fall.

And somewhere between
the last sob
and the breath that followed,
I felt a presence
I could only call divine.

Nothing was explained.

There was room beside me,
and I let my sorrow sit.

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My qualm with the lesson is how quickly I let it speak over the hurt. Catharsis came when laughter made room for tears, and I accepted my grief. What happened may have taught me something; it never meant I deserved it.

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