Holy Breeze

TW: Self harm, gore, and religious trauma.

A soft breeze tickled the skin on my arms awake as I felt a presence behind me. Sat there on the bench, I was content to never find out who. That is, until the presence sat on the bench too. As the wooden bench creaked adjusting to its new visitor, my chills were chased away by a warm breeze. Who was this person? Rare nowadays for my tense shoulders to relax without my heating pad. Even rarer, for my erratic thoughts to be silenced without smoke. With aching realization, I felt like I was at home. Not the place with four walls and a door, but when things were good. When I believed I was good. I moved myself to speak but the stranger did so first. They asked me what I saw, which I could not help but laugh at. The things I see nowadays are breeze and sound, nothing truly colorful or with shape. I told them this, and they persisted in their question. What do I see? What color is the laughter of a child? What is the shape of the breeze as it rolls over my skin? They do not wait for my answer and describe what they see. They see the pond directly in front of us, and the willows that weep over it. I see the sound it makes when they touch the water after a strong breeze. They see an old grandma and her granddaughter, learning to hopscotch. I see the sound of grandma’s delayed feet landing as she pushes past her apprehension, a stark contrast to her granddaughter who lands blissfully like a cat. I smile remembering my own blissfulness, but I also smile grateful for my weighted knowledge. The stranger continues pointing out things, dividing things into their shape and color, while I hear and feel them surround me. The stranger stops talking, and it feels like I am seeing my favorite bench for the first time. I ask for their name; his name is James. Again, I could not help but laugh at the sickening irony. My dad’s middle name was that. He describes his life, the children he has raised, who I know still love him by the way he tells their adventures. I feel invasive to his perfect world, as the fallen blind daughter of a priest. I never saw things clearly with the Lord, so I gouged my eyes out. The event caused quite a stir and as you can imagine I am not welcome at the church anymore. It was a hasty decision that has cost me a few, but I have never felt freer. I do not read the texts; I know no author anymore. I know only of the breeze that tickles the skin on my arms awake and the ripples of sound. Some might call it falling prey to the flesh of the world, but I think it is just sitting on a bench instead of a pew on Sunday. It is the only reminder I need to know I am not alone. I try to explain my understanding of religion to the man, he tries to understand, however he is not a godly or a higher power type man. I ask what he imagines after he dies, he says he would not know because he would be dead. Again, I laugh, this time feeling none of the dark edge the previous two did. I give him my name, Hope, and wait for the dots to click. Maybe with that one fact alone he could piece together the life I left behind. He does not, in fact he does the opposite and lists all the other people he knows that are named Hope. Strangely, I am relieved. Most times when I tell people my name, it is questions of my family’s faith or a pun. James is an ignorant fool or a tactful mastermind with conversation, either way I am grateful. I try to remember what time it is, afraid the day and the sun are running thin. James suggests it is not too late for a walk and I ache to go with him. Despite the only thing my father and him have in common being name, I know I am imagining he is him. It had crept up inside me from the very first moment his weight hit the bench. I have fervently daydreamed of an encounter exactly like this one before so many times, I would not be surprised if this was another. I cannot go for a walk because I will hear the cadence of his feet and know he is not my father, and selfishly I want to keep pretending. I tell James this, because if I were talking with a stranger, I would want them to want to talk to me not who they pretended I was. He is silent for a while, and I decide to push on explaining. How I betrayed my father and my faith, and how I will never be able to see things the way I used to. I will never go back to the innocent girl I was, nor do I want to. Both facts haunt and shame me in a million ways. He seems confused by my admission and asks why I would ever want to ever talk to someone like that again, who causes so much unadulterated pain and self-hate. I ask the same question every time my daydream ends, when my father’s arms fade from around me. It is like I cannot help but stab myself, just like I could not help but scoop my eyes out. I refrain from telling James this, and simply tell him it is because it is my dad how could I not? He tells me how he would never ask his children to be something they were not and that he wishes things went differently for me. I feel the breeze wrap around my shoulders and I know he is telling the truth. The chill in the air makes me know it is time to leave, but once again I ask him to pretend. James freezes on the bench and I prepare myself to leave, throat swollen with stories and plans. Before I can leave, he asks me about school with the same loving fervency he used to talk about his kids and I know this is about to be the best day dream ever.