Broken Things


We met in unequal circumstances. I was west, spirit in the mountains, she was east, tribal, and civilized. 

I was almost painted blue with cold northern genes, she was warm, with generations of literacy.
I was wide with experience, and not very deep, she was narrow and focused, a tight laser of perception. 
I thought myself special and under discipline, she was special and professed for a living. 
Not opposite attracts, but something different. A need to be complete, to be a whole person. 
I was confident, and defensive. A bag of flesh with broken things inside. Nothing appeared wrong, no emotional stumps, no visible compound fractures. Just brokeness, with sharp edges, making it impossible to get close, without causing internal bleeding. 
Love adapts, it requires effort, and a belief in the future. There is less brokeness now, but memories die hard, and there are always fresh reminders.
Where I failed, she succeeded, so we succeeded, and I am forever grateful.
And then there is the fruit, the actual living results of unequalled joining. Amazing products, cared for, protected, loved beyond measure.
Now, in my twilight, or at least my late afternoon, I am not so much west, not so much confident, but approaching a measure of awareness that resembles peace.