My Place

            I know a place that is whatever I imagine it to be. Right now it is a tranquil garden, filled with the sweet aroma of freshly bloomed roses and lavender. The warm, humid breeze speaks to me of rain to come. The birds, winds, and chiming bells sing together in perfect harmony. The trees sway and bend; they dance in sync with music in the air. The radiant sun warms me from behind a cloudless sky as I lie on the crisp grass. I stretch my hand towards the white, red, and purple array of flowers; I cannot reach them from my bed of earth, but my effort is rewarded by a small brown and black butterfly that perches on my fingertip. I watch with a simplistic wonder as it then gracefully flutters away.  To never have seen such a picturesque scene is to be blind. It is, however, a temporary thing: here today and gone tomorrow; replaced in an instant.

            The still, peaceful skies fade from bright blue to murky gray. Blackened clouds shift restlessly overhead. The breeze trades its warmth for a cold edge, and intensifies tenfold. The birds fly from their leafy sanctuary, the roses close their petals, and the lavender’s scent is lost in the wind. Distant thunder rips across the sky, and is echoed by the roar of approaching rain. I stand as the torrential downpour envelopes me, the soaking rain creating a sense of isolation, cutting me off from everything but myself. I cannot hear the birds and must listen to what is inside me. I smell nothing, and I try to remember the fragrance of what I once had. I can see neither anyone nor anything, and am forced to look within. The warmth that once enveloped me is gone, and now I stand cold and dejected. The world is on the verge of drowning, and I am helpless. This is not what I want my place to be.

            The rain stops suddenly. The calm returns but is now accompanied by a disconcerting silence-oh yes, a chill more silent than Death. The utter stillness seems almost tangible as I sit on the soggy, quickly hardening ground. Tiny flakes of white swirl about me as I sit captivated by the hoary wasteland my garden has become. As the colors of my garden continue to wane I wonder why such disturbing beauty in my now desolate place has never existed. The bare trees reach their pale, leafless branches towards the sky like skeletal fingers fleeing their inevitable fate. There are no birds; there are no flowers; there are no butterflies. Only me and my quiet nothingness. Utterly captivated and paralyzed, I sit in a daze. The freezing blanket slowly covers me, but I dare not move for fear of ruining even a second of this perfect solitude. The world is consumed by silence; I close my eyes, content. However, these things I have said are not what make my place what it is.

            She will always come to share the warmth of the sun’s rays and the beauty of the blooming flowers with me. Without her, the sun would shine coldly and not a single flower could bloom. She will stand in the face of the overwhelming storm with me, accompanying me in the unbearable isolation. She will hold me tight in the noiselessness, warming me heart and soul. This is my place, because of my Love. It was nothing more than a blank page in a book-until God wrote her into it; now it is a book of its own, and beautiful beyond compare.