I see her in my minds eye
She doesn’t think anyone sees her.
Her eyes are closed, hair swept back
Lashes wet, cheeks streaked.
She is sweetly, painfully, beautiful
But she doesn’t know this.
A dusty blue dress whips angrily around her shins.
It clings to her frail, thin frame, but she is not weak.
She doesn’t look hopeful, but why is she still walking?
A giant parachute is trapped by leather cords to her small tanned shoulders.
It to is a dusty blue, the straps are long, it is a lengthy distance behind her.
It traps the heavy headwind behind her.
What buffets her from the face also drags her from behind.
Things blow by her,
Debris is caught in her parachute.
Whole, heavy desks, pieces of wood, buckets and rocks, scraps and worthless junk.
She doesn’t see them.
She doesn’t even realize she’s near the peak of a mountain.
Miles and valleys lay behind her, terrain before is level, though not short.\
Her goal is level with her, in sight.
It’s a cross, a rugged, strong, splintery, empty cross.
Ironically, she’s dragging her own cross behind in her parachute.
But she longs for and needs THIS cross.
Despite the wind, her surrounding are beautiful.
Wild green landscape, cloudless deep blue skies at dusk.
Radiant, collapsing sun burns the embers of her horizon.
Is the day, her hope, her time, almost gone?
Bloody, small knuckles grip the straps of her parachute with white death.
Why not let it go?
Oblivious to her audience she struggles forward.
But above her, as big as the sky is a man, an indescribable man.
His face glows with love, a gentle smile on his face.
His hands seem as large as the sky too; there are holes in them.
But held in those hands, giant scissors, one purpose.
In one simple moment, with one glance upward.
Her cords would snap and the weight be gone and would propel her forward.
The force collapse her to her knees to grip that cross instead.