I’ve written this piece about PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) that comes from different circumstances, can be moderate to severe, and affects the lives of the individuals and their family members alike.
Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved
The pitcher was full—
A sturdy, well-shaped, clear glass allowed for an unobstructed view of fruit. —Tart lemon and lime, sweet orange, refreshing mint. A carving etched along its side said something about its personality, where it comes from, or what it believes.
The effortless flow of liquid between frozen cubes, splashing into a craving glass, served satisfaction. —Cheers!
Its handle was a comfortable, secure grip.
A mid-afternoon excursion out side to the patio, and it was placed sturdily onto a wrought-iron table fused by our dear-departed grandfather.
Overall, life, once like steel and easy grips, presented a solid foundation.
The surrounding grass was greener than it had ever been due to April showers that became May and June’s endless rain. It was now a blazing hot July.
The birds visiting managed a subtle humming, as opposed to a full clattering song.
—Soothing was preferred over cheerful.
Someone had been through war, the sort in which you don’t choose your battles, but rather they choose you; and now the time has come that it is over.
The remaining soul is propped perfectly back into normalcy, beneath a sky that knows no difference, or of dreadful particulars that one experiences before implosion.
Feeling without solid ground beneath their feet, traumatized and raw; It made all good intentions by those that cared to walk them around town, pointing out the friendly neighborhood ice-cream store, boasting of the sun shining poetically in the sky, or of joyfulness expressed by boys and girls passing on bicycles, —fruitless.
They earnestly wanted to enjoy, pleasing us by being happy, but every desire for them to be was rather interpreted as painful expectation, fear of disappointing, pressure to be part of a past way of life, that not unlike a dream, could be recalled vividly, however not lived.
Their intention to settle down and truly come home, not to simply exist like a plaid chair’s reliable comfort in the living room, or a candle halfway burned down, exposing its wick atop the mantle, was sincere—
But everything was different now:
The bicycle sounds triggered alarm. The ice-cream store reminded them of their brother who was killed. The sun’s glare hurt their wounded eyes. Joyful boys and girls created longing for innocence they’d never again behold. Too many sticks and stones!
The stench of death, while trying to save lives, in many instances their own, remained available to recall. Chaos swarmed like bees around their queen.
A toll was taken upon the strongest warriors causing an impact of fragility.
—A tulip, emerged in the tenderness of spring, deceived and exposed wickedly to frost.
Sad, afraid, and stuck— how they want to jump but simply cannot!
You need to remember for them, to remind them of love—like their mother’s apron with stains of butter and sweet jams.
Be the wife that caresses his torn-up feet, the husband that kisses the salt of her tears in hope of capturing his smiling bride.
For those the world looks immensely different to, who suffer desperately wanting to be home in their hearts, but fear a landmine—compassion,
like strings building tempo in an orchestra—tries and understands the melody of confusion that riddles the soul—patience. No limit on time that has stopped, and left creatures of a fragmented past.
The pitcher has been shattered, it’s true, but the thirst and recipe remains—
The below video has been inserted as it speaks volumes to me along the lines of the words I’ve written.
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