Healing

I long for a magnificent box full of silvery magic that I could use to heal you. Inside, there would be hundreds of potions in tiny crystal bottles, etched by lightning bolts and filled by angels. There would be restorative salves of rosebud and lemongrass and soothing elixirs drawn from the sparkling white edge of a rainforest waterfall.

I could comfort you with whispered chants and incantations, my hands hovering like hummingbirds above your head, twisting and pulling the mildewed threads of regret and doubt; unraveling your defenses and granting your soul a freeness it has not yet known.

I could cover your heart with tiny, purple violets and the perfume of lilacs, infusing your bluish blood with returning love, it’s perennial patience filling your cells, waltzing with the nucleus of your body and soul.

I could wash your hands with a lamb’s kindness, replacing the dull, thin skin spotted brown with soft pink electricity; placing your fingers and palms together, pressing out oily ills, leaving you clean and dry and welcomed on the other side, spirit engaged, colorless diamond perfection.

I could press cool turquoise stones against the smooth ivory skin of your eyelids soaking up your fever and odium, returned to an earthly rock coffin, leaving your sight clear, vision reborn; see the roaring sea and a single raindrop in their shared innocence and divine power.

I could line your back with the leaves of a mighty oak, its woody strength and rough bark forcing you upright, towering against pillows of cottony white clouds, towards a family and a kingdom whose ancestry commands respect; its inheritance, the iron chain of confident belonging and the riches of age.

Alas, I have no silvery magic, no glorious spells, no enchanted garden. All I have to offer is my love.