It was like a Bandage.

It was a bandage, in a way

The wound was hidden.  The fear was real, but unspoken. The fact that you knew was a surprise to me.  But you knew. You comforted quietly, for your fears were there as well.  You saw what was unknown to others.

It was a bandage, in a way.  The gentleness was a kind surprise.  The warmth of the cloth you had moistened was comforting and the touch was natural. Slowly, and with care, came the relief. The anxiety was going away, and a feeling of ease was replacing it. The apprehension preventing letting anyone know was going away, because now you know.  I didn’t have to pretend anymore. Relief had come with your touch, your eyes, your concern. Your quiet strength.

It was a bandage, that I would use to cover and to protect, and to start the healing. Like a shell it would do its job, on the outside, and like a sponge it would absorb the mess that would surely be there, on the inside. Regardless of the type of bandage, the pain is still pain.  The running had stopped, the weariness had overtaken.  The acceptance of the “now” had come.  I was in need. I remember the first crash on my bike and the trip for a bit of comfort and a bandage that would be the Medal of Honor for the trip.  The look in the eye of my grandmother and the comfort I found as she held my face in her hands.  And she smiled.  I still hurt, but I had the banner of that fall and I went back to the battle… I still don't know what it was that I had interrupted.

It was like a bandage but was hidden.  I don’t need to show them off any more.  I moved past the need for the attention.  I am now in the camp of the stoic. Seldom is it mentioned, the scar that is the reminder. The “life tattoo” that is the memento of my past. It is not shown… it is quiet. And you asked to see… I am uncertain how you knew…. I said, “It is nothing, I am fine.” But your attention and quiet resolve and persistence showed me that you would not stop until you could lend aide.

It was like a bandage, and I was afraid. Your request required my letting you and my being vulnerable.  I had to let you get close enough to potentially cause me more pain. To help by cleaning meant that you would be very close, and I might start bleeding again. That to remove the filth meant I needed to let my guard down.  “It would prevent the infection”, you said, “it will keep it from getting worse”.  I know the pain that caused the wound, and now I am uncertain of the pain of the repair. I just know I need it.

It was like a bandage, and it was over.  Not perfect, or even done healing, but better.  Restored, somehow, but with a mark.  Perhaps it was simply the knowledge that it was needed, and it was time and you could get this done.  And you did. The wound has a covering and a timeframe to heal, now that it is clean… It may need to have the dressing changed from time to time, but I am better for it.  I am on the mend.


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