She leans against the shaky railing, she’s shaky herself. Dark bangs cover her eyes, shielding them from the Arizona wind. As Linda stares at the grey parking lot below, she watches a cat tip-toe around the oil patches. “At least she knows where to step” she thinks to herself. From this long second story balcony of the Desert Flower Motorlodge, Linda watches the morning unfold in front of her. As if in slow motion, the sun tries to climb above a patch of clouds, but they seem to build on top of themselves to shield Flagstaff from the passage of time.
Linda lost track of time years ago. She knows how old she is in years (44), but she’s older than that. Is it possible to be older than your age? She looks down at the red viens between her knuckles and knows it is. Her skin shouldn’t feel this stretched at her age, or her head this heavy, and now her sense of time and the way she feels just doesn’t match up. Her slight frame leans a bit too comfortably onto the iron railing as it creaks outward, and she folds her thin forearms over each other, then lays her head on them.
With eyes closed she takes inventory of herself and this moment. Her body seems intact, and her backpack’s loaded, just inside the door of room 212 behind her. It’s funny how quickly her mind goes to that yellow backpack, as if it’s an extension of her body, of herself. Probably because she’s kept it close for at least five years now, ever since that 25th of December, when she recieved it as a gift at some shelter in Oklahoma.
The yellow color of the bag’s fabric is probably the best gift Linda’s ever been given. She stares at that color sitting at bus stops, laying on benches at parks, and sitting on dirty motel bedspreads, while listening to the always-strange rustling of some Truck Stop Romeo shaving in the bathroom. Something in the yellow triggers something from her childhood, some dress or truss of doll hair – she can’t quite focus her memory on what it is. To this day it still takes her away from her surroundings, soothes her at little. And some nights when the yellow shows up in her dreams it makes her cry.
With eyes closed she has taken all inventory – her bag and herself. She lifts her head up, opens her eyes and then squints - the morning is brighter, the sun finally having conquered the clouds. Orange light covers the parking lot and now there’s a few travelers slowly loading minivans and sedans below. It’s time for her to go as well.
Linda stands upright and looks down at her digital watch: 7:45am. Still plenty of time to make it to the shelter downtown and get breakfast. As she turns, placing her hand on the doorlever to give it a little push and reach in for her bag, she stops. Linda stares down at the place where the door meets the door frame. Closed. A closed motel door means a locked motel door. The weight of the door must’ve forced it shut, past where she’d left it cracked open. Now the only way to get her backpack and every posession she owned in it is to knock on the door, waking the man sleeping inside, the man who had called her all sorts of names and given her all sorts of bruises the night before.
Linda silently slumps down to her knees and breathes in deep. She stares down her at knees, the holes in the corduroy showing her white skin more pale than the day she was born. No movement at all. She closes her eyes again and takes inventory once more. Herself. That’s it now.
With eyes closed she makes a wish. To herself, to God, to her dead father - who knows to whom? Doesn’t matter, a wish doesn’t need a recipient, it just needs to be.
She wishes one thing. That she could start again, hit the reset button on life. Erase this moment, this sunlight, this balcony, this old body. Linda wishes she could be new again. That she could be born again.
Born again.
You know I think there is a bit of Lind;s desire in all of us. I may sound like a total crazy but even as a a child of God, I find myself in places where I take a look and wonder how I got to this place and how can I get out, change it. I should have done this, why did I do this? Even to the point where regret steps in like a heavy weight.
I swear, you could write books and I’d read them. I couldn’t stop reading, completely absorbed in this story and most stories you write on here. Keep writing.
Makes sense Carol – seems like there’s a tipping point were regret becomes the majority in someone’s mind about their life, and I think those people (who tend to be looked down on like this “Linda”) through all their pain have an advantage on the rest of us. Their need for God is glaring to them (not that she even realized what “born again” means when she wished it, she just wanted the concept and that’s what Jesus is about right?)
But yeah we can all feel a bit of that even as believers right? To a lesser extent. Maybe those regrets are like flares that are laid down on our road of life to slow us down and keep us focused Him.
Hey thanks Katie!
Wow, Aaron. That was really profound. I agree with what Carol says, we all can feel this way to a certain extent at time as believers. I know I do. It was good to read and to remind myself of the awesomeness of the God we serve.
I feel priveldged to be a part of your church and hear your profound wisdom on a weekly basis.
Have you ever thought of writing a book?
Id buy it:)