The Pieces of Me

From the other side of the room, my eyes stare blankly at me. They watch me from my son’s face. One of my daughters caresses me in an attempt to conjure the pain away, and her hands feel exactly like mine. I turn my head to the sound of my own voice coming out from the youngest of my grandchildren.

When I look at them all I see are the pieces of myself. I feel as if someone had broken me down and distributed my fragments unevenly among these people. I would try to make sense out of chaos and put them back together, but I can barely move. I can’t just get up and rebuild myself once again from my ashes; I’m dying.

I can’t die, though. If I do, who will reassemble the pieces? I need to breathe and get in control; I must take charge. Give me my eyes back, return me my hands, get away from my voice. You, over there, stop walking with my feet. Why are you all tearing me up?

Calm down, they say, and I can’t even respond, I can’t even explain how that little girl in the corner stole my voice. I would point at her; but I have no hands anymore. I tremble, I shudder. “That is your granddaughter, Mom. We named her Clarice, just like you. Come closer, Clarice.” Oh God, they even snatched my name.

I’m not ready, Lord. I’m not ready. Give me a chance to put everything in its place, and make myself whole again. Save me from these people who would leave the room and scatter me even more if I died. In that case, how would I ever return? I know there is nothing to do once You’ve made up your mind, though. My will is no match to Your will, and my reason can’t make sense out of Your reason. Just because you decided so, this will be my deathbed; but please let me know, give me a string of hope to hold on to:

Is there intrinsic memory within the fragments? Will they find themselves inexplicably attracted to each other? Will they bring me back eventually on their own?