This kind of bliss

Noelle Khalila Nicolls Love Letters 0 Comments

‘My brother the boogie man’ was drawn from the deck, but it wasn’t her hand. She never had to play that game: molested by her brother, abandoned by her father, abused by her lover. Not her story to share. Not her journey to walk. Not her lesson to learn. Loss was her teacher. The death of herself and her journey back. Life and its twisted unfolding. A sting so sweet it breeds pleasure in pain.

Her day started wrapped in his arms under the shade of an almond tree. It ended in those same arms under a half moon sky, in sand filled sheets, with the sound of the waves bathing their bodies. A day as rejuvenating as a healing hot spring, they created, born from the spontaneity of their way.

He watched her as she prayed for the fellowship of food to deepen their roots, for the gift of bread, broken together, to nourish their bodies and nourish their minds. Her peaceful excitement in the moment of reverence stimulated his desire to walk with her. He beckoned her to draw near. Their soft lips gave way, each to the other. A wet exchange of affection to express appreciation for their way.

Who would have thought so much joy could spring from her sadness. Too far-fetched to fathom, this kind of bliss. Uninterested in the bargain, she never bet such high stakes. Consciously creating only this moment and that. Seeds planted in tepid soil. Fertility too obscure to perceive. Fruits appearing like a poisonous apple, just a blessing in the cycle of contradiction.

Tears streamed down her smiling face. He watched the torment with abated glee. Comforting hands stroking her back. Co-creating a moment to pass. No complaints over this paradoxical bliss. This kiss of death. The kiss of life.



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