Building Wells

Liv and I get together weekly to verbally barf up inner demons. It kills off the events that otherwise fester birthing bad versions of our self. It’s not all we do, but what we lead with so there is fresh space to enjoy the rest of our time together.

We merely listen by mentally holding a trash bag open while the other purges. Then we tie it shut. If one of us wants advice then we have to ask, otherwise we don’t address the others’ vomit.

Liv’s vomit, however, is about me this time.

“Our friendship is in free fall. You have no room for sympathy right now. I don’t want to be vulnerable because I get coldness from you. I want a friend who is on my side. I want Kelly back,” Liv finishing after pointing out some examples.

I wondered if in loosing a Mother I was to loose a community too. Liv hadn’t been the only one suggesting they were ready for a comeback. What she was asking for was outside of my capability, though. I needed this time to grieve, to be sad, to be silent in a dried up well.

“I’m sorry you get coldness from me, I’m sorry this is happening,” I offer. “It must be difficult to have me physically here but not the person you could count on?”

Liv is quiet.

“I was kinda mourning you. Waiting for the ‘you’ I want to come back, not who you are now,” Liv states in a far away tone. “I just realized that. You must have already become conscious of that, though.”

We reach near the place we used to be. Where giggling for hours and bold truths are the currency.

I miss Mom the way one would miss air when diving too deep. It is a physical pain in the chest, demanding complete focus. There is nothing to do but go get air. That or pass out in an attempt to save resources.

Deep into fights, Mohammed Ali, exhausted and spent would reach deep inside himself and pull out what usually rendered him Champ. He wasn’t without assistance in doing this. A man by the name of Bundini Brown seated in the outer corner of a ring chanted at pinnacle times: “go to the well once ‘mo, Champ, go to the well!”

These would be the magical words that would rouse the Lion from its cage and Ali would erupt to the surface, reining Champ once more.

Every single person has that within them. The ability to embolden another to rise, the guts to reach into someone’s fading heart and pump it back to life. Some practice more than others.

“Mom’s clothes fill two of my closets. Just in case she comes back. If I give them away somehow I’m giving her away, giving up, ” I state to Liv who puts her arms around me.

“Kelly, I want you to know I see you and the courage you have to let this mold you. It takes being genuine now. Which means that you go see what you’re trying to cover up,” Liv says.

“What I’m trying to cover up is that I’m falling apart.”

That’s what happens when you build a well, one that you can go to throughout life. It gets knocked down at times and if you’re in there you float for a while till someone comes along an whispers: float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

And you build.