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While I Wait: A Journey of Recovery

Memories of Life in a Besieged City

Copyright W.C.Turck 2008“Boom!” A crackling detonation followed by a rumbling sound in the distance jolts me from a deep sleep. Disoriented and ready to dive under my bed for shelter, I jump up, my head almost colliding with the wood floor. Trying to regain balance, I hold with one hand to the metal railing of the bed. Still dazed, I begin to survey the room, taking stock of objects barely visible in the dark , lit only by the diffused light from a lamp  outside. Where am I, the thought echoes through my brain, leaving me unsettled? I panic, lost briefly in the space where nothing makes sense and memories do not exist. It is just me and a vast prairie of emptiness.

“Boom!” Another loud sound, followed by a burst of light radiating through the semi-closed, white blinds propels me forward. I begin to run. I run away from the terror-laden sound, my feet heavy and filled with concrete allowing for infinitely small steps that seem to lead nowhere. I run, cold and shivering suspended in a vacuum where nothing but the confines of the body and physical reactions exist. “I” am not there. The smell of fire permeates the air, the sound of explosions mingles with the blinding light streaming intermitted amid the rhythm of blood rushing through arteries; clogging  my ears with a hissing sound. I run for hours, or so I think.

When it happens, I can’t be sure. Slowly, as if someone moves a dusty curtain, weighed down by a billion moments of amnesia, inch by inch the image of my soul is revealed. I stand  facing the window, my bare feet soothed by the coolness of the floor. I turn my head to the right, locking my gaze on the painting that hangs above the antique, wood dresser. Even though obscured by dark, I know its subject and the light brush strokes of the watercolor by heart. I know the story of my grandfather who purchased the painting of the villa on the coast of Adriatic, hoping to keep fond memories of his youth. I know the story of the dresser. I remember the day my husband dragged the heavy wooden piece home with the triumphal pride of a successful hunter etched on his face.I know that if I reach under one of its legs I am sure to find a rusty nail poking-out ever so slightly, catching the threads of the mop each time I clean.

Comforted by the familiar, memories and stories of the past safely tucked in the far recesses of my brain; I slowly walk back to bed and sit down. Propping my back with extra pillows I listen to the howling of the wind from a thunderstorm unleashed on Chicago. With each thunder-clap I flinch as the loud sounds resembles the sounds of detonations.

How is it that these same sounds offered a pocket of safety for us during the war? We slept through them, lulled by the knowledge that during bad storms snipers and heavy artillery were mostly silenced. Nature and its power offered us a reprieve from fight, allowing us to catch a breath and experience the sense of safety, even just briefly.

As I watch the last flickers of lightening diffuse through the blinds I feel my lips curl in a smile. Each time the flash-backs erase my memories, I cease to exit. And when they come back, even the bad ones I welcome them eagerly as they all make up my soul and that which connects me to life. Calmed by the storm, I slowly drift into sleep, hugging the pieces of my wounded self  as closely as I can.

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