She sits straight up,
But falls back again,
Rolling over in yet another futile attempt
At slumber on this black night,
In this ancient rusted bed,
Too small for her but treasured still.
It cannot bear her weight,
But she won’t let it go,
Not now,
Not ever,
Or so she believes,
For although the aching old springs
Are holding on for dear life,
The copper paint that covers them
Is the handiwork of the Loss.
She rises again,
Face still wet with the tears
Of her deep soul’s pain,
To grasp the photograph,
So recent yet so distant.
In faith, she calls out
And is answered,
Strengthened,
Yet cannot but feel the Vanquished.

She raises the window off her bedroom wall,
Climbs through, and
Glides to the pond,
A pond typically so noisy but silent tonight,
Save her weeping as her tears flow down
To the water, but soft! a figure
Rises up from the pond,
Lifts up the chin of the Vanquished,
And the Vanquished cries out in mirth!
The Loss it is, and the two young women
Embrace, now weeping for joy,
No words or greetings e’en required.
Once again, they dance together,
Spinning ’round and kicking
As high as a skyscraper—or higher!—
Both of them as one,
And they feel no pain,
Only joy, only strength, only love of the Christianly sort.
All night it seems they go on like that,
And yet as only an hour,
Hurdling high o’er the treetops
Of the evergreens so mighty and authoritative,
Yet humble, submissive tonight,
The Loss never lost,
The Vanquished never out,
’Til the Loss glides back toward the Pond.

“Where are you going?” cries the Vanquished
As she reaches the pond, panting,
Out of breath,
As the Loss walks on water to the center of the pool,
The place from which she had come.
“These, you know, are the last days,” speaks the Loss, with all sincerity
Yet a joyful smile, “In the stream of time,
The last seconds. You know this;
You’ve gazed about at the world’s conditions.
Very soon now will come that time
When we will dance, yes,
And sing aloud,
In the glorious reality of a place
Far beyond our highest expectations.
So turn around, and turn back again—
Only a little while more.
You will indeed see me on this earth,
And I will see you there.”
She fades into the water,
And the Vanquished Victor remains.
“Yes,” she states,
As the sunrise breaks the horizon’s dismal wait.
The familiar sounds of early morn return,
And she crawls back through the space
To her aging, imperfect bed,
Knowing all said words to be true,
And she touches the gentle frame—
Of the photograph, mind you;
Not yet of the girl—
Then lays back upon the mattress and smiles,
“Yes, my Gain, you will.”