Maybe,
just maybe,
it’s me
I’ve been waiting for.
To stop trying to understand
and start to feel.
To stop offering me
all kinds of wise and beautiful advice
disconnected from the reality
of what I’ve been through,
what I’m going through.
The one who will simply listen—
to the pain,
to the struggle,
to the tears that sometimes just won’t stop—
without immediately jumping in to give advises.
The one that will at last see me as a whole,
the sum of all the Irises I’ve ever been:
The little girl sitting in front of the TV,
when her mother stood at the doorway of the living room and asked,
“Do you want to talk about my illness?”
and she, mesmerized by the screen, shook her head “no”.
The girl who walked, frightened, around the village,
frightend of falling into the hands of kids who picked on her,
with no one at home to hug or guide her—
for everyone were busy dealing with mother’s illness.
The teenager who searched for love in the form of touch
from anyone willing to offer it.
The teenager who discovered God
and left an entire world behind to burn to ashes.
The young woman who was a mere illusion—
inside, still that eternal girl-teen,
covering her head,
surrendering to God,
and giving him two daughters.
The woman who raised them alone,
leaning on psychiatric medication so she and them can survive.
Maybe it’s me waiting for me,
getting frustrated with all the people
who simply don’t understand,
with their advices,
their opinions,
their stories.
Waiting for me,
for Iris—
To finally see me as a whole
and not as a single moment in time.
Standing before a traffic light,
where all three lights—
red, orange, and green—
flash
all at once.
