|Photo by Michael Baird|
Sweet memories of my baby girl frequently flash throughout my days. A montage springs forth of her radiance, innocence, smile, dance, and spirit bringing with those wonders, enormous pain. Visions of a once doe-eyed child now ridden in the agony that variations of “fairy dust” left behind. Drugs.
“She’s still is alive,” you repeat, stanza after stanza, while gazing upon the shell of a once healthy, beautiful girl, alive. Your soul screams, “Breathe, oh please, breathe!” Your knees buckle and you beg God or your higher power to take you instead. Drugs.
It is a shared sadness, secreted, overwhelming, and a sorrow that may never find its way to the light. Cool darkness in once twinkling eyes emits from a broken child, broken hearts, and broken lives. Drugs.
How does one let go of sweetness, the haunting joys of her voice from a child that once was, and may never be again. If death is a journey into the light, its finality among earthly beings, in this there is no healing, no closure; there is no solace in the living death of a life of promise. Drugs.
How could the little hand that once reached for yours, enveloped in sunshine, now be enshrouded by frigid crust? Drugs.
Her contagious laughter is but an echo of our past - an echo that rebounds into infinite hell. Drugs.j.w.