Rippled Lake

She sits there.

At least in my mind she does.

She sits there, oblivious

to all the things she did

and all the things she said

and all the things she is

and all the things she isn’t.

I can’t take it.

I saw her indifferent finger,

cast against the sunset sky,

gently swoop down

and barely kiss

the glass lake.

I saw the ensuing ripples.

Felt it underneath me

as I got caught up in the motion,

seasick of the drama,

of the questions,

of the sides,

of the knowing that she did all of this

and she doesn’t care.

My insides rage.

But my heart . . .

but my heart tells a different story.

My heart says she’s still a friend.

My heart says to serve others,

to show the mercy and grace and love and forgiveness

that Christ has shown me.

And my insides rage,

buck like an untamed horse

at having to be controlled by love

and forgiveness . . .

and understanding.

Understanding . . .

I don’t understand.

I don’t understand how someone

could do this.

I don’t understand how someone can

be so delicate and dainty

yet be Death’s destructive minion.

I don’t understand how she could do this

and not care and think it’s not a big deal–

like she didn’t just send a tsunami across this lake.

I don’t understand how I can be so enraged–

when I know that when I look at her,

when I look at the reflection of that glass lake . . .

I see me.

I’m a tumbling mess of conflicted emotions.

Part of me is red with rage and the

spilled blood of ruined friendships,

but another part of me is the bloom of a

white rose, peace and love and forgiveness

gently folded within the petals.

She is me and I am her and we are . . .

friends with a rippled lake between us.

And I’m the one who must take that first step across the ripples.

Not her.

And I don’t know what that makes me . . . what that makes her.