UP FROM THE ASHES

                                                    [1]

Resilient, that’s the word that best describes me. I’ve been to the hottest parts of hell and back; I’ve watched my heart ripped out of my chest and then thrown back in place. I’ve wallowed with pigs and swam in ashes. I’ve been abused, depressed, dejected and suicidal. But in spite of everything, I refused to give up; I refused to let my past define me, because a long time ago, I came to the understanding that good or bad, life’s what you make it. So I decided to quit blaming God for what some may call my misery, and I decided to rise from the darkness that was once my life. But it wasn’t always easy. There were times I felt like I would be better of six feet below even in what many may have considered the brightest of days-which to me were as few as the number of hairs on my chin. But I was determined to make the best out of my life, not just for me, but as I would later learn, for others who would one day get to read about me. This is why I believe that no matter how bad it is, there can always be a silver lining in your dark clouds. Sometimes, you would have to dig through the clouds to find it, but trust me, it’s always there. Today, as I lie on my hospital bed, my eyes deeming with weariness and my bones shivering beneath my skin, I hear the sound of my ancestors calling me to return home to the Creator; but I smile and say to them, “After I tell my story.” My children and grandchildren have no idea about this conversation and ever since my hair became as white as a ghost and my skin as wrinkled as a prune, they’ve been pestering me to tell them about my life. Why they’re so curious, I don’t know. Today, they're all gathered by my bedside-all fourteen of them-eager to hear the story I once promised to tell them. To the optimists, it’s an inspirational story; to the romantics, it’s a love story; but to me, it’s a combination of both-a story about finding strength to live again after dying many times, and then finding love while doing so. It sounds easy now as I think about it, but finding love wasn’t easy for me at all. In a world where you’ve been conditioned to think men want only one thing from women, not only do you stop looking for love, you become skeptical of it even when it is true and genuine. I was opportune to find true and genuine love, once, but then fate took it away from me and Cupids decided not to pay me another visit. I don’t like to feel sorry for myself, no, not at all; no time for pity party, because such is life-you love, you lose, but you go on. Some things we pray will never happen, but they happen anyway. What do you do then? Kill yourself? Of course not. If you’re like me, you cry, and then you try to move on. But you don’t let go of the memory; you just don’t let it paralyze your life. So for the longest time, I lived with the memory of my lost love; I drenched myself in a fantasy that I will one day find him again. And just when I thought all hopes were lost, fate surprised me in a way that to this day, still fills my eyes with tears; tears impregnated with a feeling deeper and far reaching than joy, one akin to euphoria and sheer paradise.

The heat from the heater beside my bed spews hot air over my body. Yet, I shiver with a cold that’s been ninety years strong. I’ve always had an abnormal body temperature since birth, but now it feels worse than ever. Even with a gown and two thick sweaters, I can still feel my hands shiver as I reach for the bottle of water on my night stand. One of my grandsons hands me the bottle and as I let the water trickle down my throat, I’m convinced the next generation will never remain the same after hearing my story. I put the water down and my last daughter helps me sit up and props me against the headboard. Then, I take a deep breath and begin to narrate this story, my story.