TOO FAR TO REACH
WESTON INSTITUTION FOR WOMEN
She sits there, alone, miles and miles away.
I watch her, my mind trying to absorb what her eyes are expressing. She is beautiful, yet her ghosts taunt her and reflect a solemn woman. She tries to speak, but they wont let her. The only sound that escapes her lips are hurtful moans.
She is motionless, not even the slightest blink for hours.
What drives this young woman to still want to exsist? I can only hope to find the answer to that question. She has no parents, no friends, or children for her to love, or be loved.
The more I watch her, the more I realize, it is'nt the urge that keeps her heart beating, but the pain inside her itself. Can such a woman endure life, with such vague desires to communicate with the real world?
I continue to study her. Her every jester, and movement, her eye movement and expressions. Her reaction to the others around her.
I try to read her eyes, but there is only emptiness behind them.
A constant pause of my pen, as I try to write it all down in my journal, with tear filled eyes.
Suddenly, she gets up and slowly walks toward the window. I watch her intensely, as she peered through the iron bars that protected the glass pane.
I felt a sense of joy, that she seemed interested in the world outside. I quickly jotted down her every move, and eased my way closer to her and the window.
Though she appeared to still be distant, she began to blow her warm breath upon the pane. It left a clouded sheet that was fading fast. She squeezed her finger through the bars, and wrote something on the clouded page.
I found myself stretching out to see what she wrote, as she turned and walked back to her chair. The same position, the same blank look.
I pondered what she could have been thinking when she did it. Curiously I walked to the window, and tried to read what she had wrote.
Sadly it had faded, so I gently blew upon it, as a name and a date was revealed. I grabbed my journal and quickly wrote it down before it faded away.
This was the first time in three years, that she tried to reach out to someone, or something.
My journal was complete and tomorrow would be the first day to start a new one. I was happy that I had something positive to write upon the pages, even if it didn't mean anything to anyone, but myself.
I left her there, as she continued to look at the window, and returned to my office. I began to go over every detail of the past year, and after eighteen hours of analyzing my notes. I concluded, she wasn't ready to face the real world, not just yet.
What ever pain had trapped her, and what ever impulsed her to take her own life, is vague, but still posess'es her mind. Deep in her bowels, the ambrosious taste of sweet death still exsisted. She would be with us another year.
Once again, I reach for a new journal, I begin a new page, a new study of this beautiful woman.
A hopeful new year, a year of progress, and change. Of happiness for her, and for me.
I start my new journal with yesterdays date-
" She writes upon the window pane, a name and a date. The date is our anniversary, and the name is mine."
A new tear falls upon the fresh new pages of my journal, a hopeful tear, a tear of a loving husband and concerned psychiatrist.