Michael’s Question

Ever felt trapped by the responsibilities of life when you were dying to step out of the box?  Carrying on the theme of codependency, I came across this short piece of ‘spiritual fiction’ I wrote a couple of years ago.

Michael’s Question

“Can you hear the music?”

Matilla frowned at the baby she was jostling to peace on her hip and turned quickly to the kitchen window.  Her brows drew together.

It was Michael.  She knew he was behind her, standing in the doorway. But she didn’t turn.

His bright presence would fill the postage-stamp kitchen. Not with harsh light, exposing the grime and other shortcomings of her less-than-stellar housekeeping. The light that accompanied him was golden and alive, kissing her common possessions like the touch of Midas, revealing a beauty one would never guess.

But she didn’t turn.

The question hung in the air as she forced herself to stare out the window.

Could she hear the music?

She used to hear the music….

Never loudly. A subtle undercurrent below tumultuous, colliding brain-waves.  It coaxed and called, and sometimes she would answer it. A little.

But the music wasn’t for her. Not the her that she was. Maybe for the her that she might one day attain to in her mighty striving to Be.

Why was he asking now?

Why now when her days were dim and filled with dutiful love;  true love that had been eroded by responsibility and harangued by storms of resentment, but with a foundation strong enough to keep her?

She could not afford to hear the music. Not now.

The baby had quieted and she cradled him in front of her, still glaring out the window.

If she turned, she would weaken.

The glow would touch her, the music would well up and she’d have to respond. How dare he speak of that sweetness when she lived with so much that was bitter? How dare he remind her it was there?

How dare he suggest that she could hear the music, respond to it, and still meet every urgent task determined to swallow the hours of her life?

If she could do that, she’d already be doing it, wouldn’t she?

…wouldn’t she?

Michael waited.

She clenched her eyes and her arms tightened, molding her son’s sleeping form around her chest like a breastplate.  But the light behind her was warm, and patient in the stillness. It lingered, and her stiffened back, her grinding jaw involuntarily relaxed.

“If I hear -” she spoke to the window. She cleared her dry throat.

“If I hear the music,”  she whispered, “I’ll have to dance.”

An attempted wry smile twisted her face into a grimace.

“There is no… room… to dance here.”

The light seemed to grow, the air becoming thick with its golden haze.

“Grace makes room,” said the angel.

Matilla thought hard.

The silence deepened, the light hung suspended in time.

And then…

she turned.