Our Own Existence

"Please don't leave," a female voice cried, accompanied by the urgent slamming of a door.

Angry muffled words were heard echoing down the hallway, then there was an uneasy quiet. The walls were so thin that the slightest noise carried into the next apartment. One didn't have to be nosey to know what was going on!

Moving from the kitchen into the bedroom, I could hear the sobs from next door, as she cried into her pillow. It was very sad and depressing. Nor was it the first time. This was a continuous scenario. Each week seemed to be a repeat of the week before.

We get so wrapped up in our own existence that we form a barrier around ourselves, keeping out the people who care. We do not communicate. We do not listen. We blame everyone else for not understanding.

Later that day, there were noises in the hall. Someone was taking the steps two at a time. There was the jiggle of a handle, but the door was locked.

A male fist pounded on the door. "Let me in, we have to talk," he rasped.

There was no answer. No movement. I imagined him turn to leave. Inside my heart, I cried out, "Go to him, don't hold back. This may be your last chance. Tell him how you feel."

There was no answer. No movement. I heard slow tired steps receding. The hall was quiet again. A heavy, sad quiet.

I sat in my easy chair, the TV on mute, not really paying attention to the figures on the screen. What happened next door today, took me back into my own past. The memories are always just below the surface of my thoughts. Two years ago, I was the one who wouldn't answer the door, believing I was always right and he was always wrong. It was too late for us, but in time, with help from God and friends, my barrier was torn down.

As I stood in my kitchen, I asked for guidance. I was torn between wanting to help and wanting to be left alone. I was startled by the knock, not realizing I had been so lost in thought, waiting for an answer. As I moved towards the door, the whistle of the tea kettle made me turn back. My eyes were drawn to the window. On the sill was a butterfly, a sunbeam dancing on its brightly colored back. Seeing it filled me with such a feeling of warmth.

There was another faint rap at the door. I crossed the room, the feeling of warmth still with me. I grasped the handle and pulled. There she stood trembling, with puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Looking more like a child than a woman of twenty four. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. The tears welled up once more.

I took her hand and drew her inside. I guided her to the kitchen and made her sit down. Placing a steaming cup of tea before her I said, "Let's talk."

- Dee Pacheco 
Geneva, Ohio, U.S.A.