Évocation #5 Selfish Compassion

Snatches of reflection or memory dance past consciousness.
I notice from a distant observation, wondering at my own lack of concern.
I watch the terrors of the night played out
as heatless flames and odorless smoke image themselves into my lounge-room.
The horror is real and my prayers are earnest,
yet I carry a guilt at my lack of emotion even
as I bear witness to the grief and anxiety of others.
The Voice speaks, telling me of compassion fatigue.
Asking how this could be,
I note the self-awareness of a grieving widow.

Selfish compassion?
Perhaps a new technical term?
I wonder where it is most useful to volunteer.
Then I remember how little use I can be - for a while at least.

I try to remember how to be whole,
searching for ingredients...
Like making a cake with no eggs, nor butter, nor sugar, nor flour...
People say it can be done,
but is it still cake
or do we find ourselves consuming
or consumed by
some different entity masquerading as wholeness?
Pavlova turned to Eton Mess?
Wholeness become Hole-ness?
Enterprising businesses sell donut holes,
a less substantial hint of what might have been -
less the guilty pleasure and more the consolation prize,
like the souvenir, a tangible reminder of an unrepeatable reality.
I look around, turning our bedroom into my own souvenir cave...
An act of selfish compassion.

I place my hand on my own heart, just as I placed it on his.
I listen for a heartbeat I will not hear.

In those last days, we listened for breaths that persisted beyond reason.
The gasps I hear now shock me out of slumber.
Where did that sob come from? How did it get in here?
Grief should not be revealing herself in new adornments!
We are such old and constant comrades.
We have been dating for a long time, pretty much going steady for half a decade.
It was such a long seduction, playful and full of guile and cunning.
She wooed and courted,
coming finally with a covenant of companionship - til death us do part.

I ready myself for the excursions of the day... work, worship, encounters...
As I open the cupboard,
fossicking past souvenirs,
I ponder how to dress for my new escort.
Does bright or dull serve the moment?
How will I introduce her to others?
She is not exactly socially adept.
I resent having to take her with me,
but she does not require me to push her chair.
She simply walks through the same doors
and pushes into spaces without invitation.
Her presence is welcomed by some and rebutted by others, which begs the question:
Are people welcoming or rejecting me or her?
She may seem distracted from time to time, but I have faith she will not desert me.
Selfish compassion places me in her care.

(C) 2019, A.Koh-Butler