A is for Attached

“Do you know why you wanted to be at home watching Doctor Who?” she asked in modulated tones bereft of emotion. “Why when you’re invited to celebrate Christmas with a friend you always feel you’re on the outside? Not part of things?”

Wrinkles channeled my normally calm brow. My fingers traced the rough texture of the chair’s striated, beige and cream upholstery fabric. My head longed to shake itself. I held it still and after a long breath replied, “Because I’m detached.”

“Yes,” she said. And though her voice maintained the empty evenness, she spoke as if she had just revealed a great secret I had not known.

I continued to stroke the roughness under my fingers. Not linen, I mused to my Friend. Polyester and rayon. I returned my attention to Dr. Milton’s face. What does she want me to say? I inquired of Him. I already answered the question? Without speaking, I continued to watch her.

Dr. Milton broke the silence, “It’s alright if you want to be detached. But you need to know that you are. Then you can choose.”

a is for attachedbThe outer corners of my eyes crinkled. My head tilted itself to one side. “I’m deeply attached to God,” the words tumbled out. “That’s who I tell when I find myself amid people I love but have nothing in common with.” I raised my eyebrows and stared into her eyes, “I’m deeply, deeply attached to my Friend, to God.”

“But not to people,” she replied.

“No, not to people.” My eyebrows raised along with the tone of my voice, “I love people. I really do. But we have so little in common.”

“Because you’re detached?”

Was it a question?

“Maybe. But maybe because I’m attached to Someone very different. Someone with who sees into my heart. Someone who knows me and is utterly trustworthy.” My head shook of it’s own accord. “I don’t know what happened to me. I was attached to Marmar, Papa, Grandpère, Ti Eduardo. I was attached. But they’re gone. And the only one left was God. He’s always been with me. How could I not be attached to Him?”

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