Picture on the Wall

There is a picture hanging on our wall that is frozen in time…

…and I don’t know what to do with it. It hangs there dutifully, year in year out, collecting dust motes and the like, outwardly showing signs of the passage of time, but the actual picture contained within the frame does not age. The other pictures have changed over the years: features have matured, skin has cleared up, hair has gotten longer and darker, but this one, THIS ONE has not. I would take the picture down but I find that I do not have the strength to do that. And if you think I mean physical strength there…then you should probably stop reading this right now.

There is a picture hanging on our wall that is frozen in time.

The same picture sits on my desk. It stares at me, grinning its benign grin while I pound out my witty sentences, pithy phrases and (somewhat) coherent paragraphs. Sometimes that picture talks to me. It says things to me that only I can understand, like we have an unspoken language this picture and I. Sometimes this discourse is comforting. Sometimes it is disturbing. Sometimes I want that goddamn picture to go away; to stop staring at me, accusing me, telling me that I failed it and how the hell could I have let what happened happen?? Sometimes I think I am losing my mind.

There is a picture hanging on our wall that is frozen in time.

I’ve been told that there are different stages of grief that everyone goes through. I think that’s a crock of shit. The only “stage” I can tell you about is the constant ache I feel in my heart. Sometimes it is worse than others, sure, but it is always there, regardless. It’s been four years and it hasn’t gone away yet. If it hasn’t yet, I’m not sure that it ever will. And if it does, what does that mean? That I am forgiven? That I can move on? That all is well…whatever the hell that means…because I honestly have no idea anymore.

There is a picture hanging on our wall that is frozen in time.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” And, sure, it’s a nice, succinct quote that people like to bandy about on Facebook and Twitter and the like and if it’s helped you find strength in a dark moment, bully for you. But my question is this: what happens when the broken places feel like they are everywhere and you’ve been wounded to the very core of your being? If someone has the answer to this query I’d really like to know because…

…there is a picture hanging on our wall that is frozen in time.