His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.
Angels float nearby, but they cannot free him. They simply keep vigil.
Suddenly, he stands and rattles the chain attached to his wrists. The chain has no end, no key, no hook. It extends over time and space far beyond where my eye can see.
So, I close my eyes and imagine rainbows springing from deep within my breast. I pour the yellows, oranges, and reds over him. I emit blue and green, then violet and indigo and I say, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.”
The rainbow colors bust through the chains and they fall to the ground.
The angels guide the slave to the light above and he disappears, no longer a slave.
Just like the semi-permanent houseguest who suddenly moves and leaves behind his half-used jar of skin cream, a toothbrush, or a strand of hair in the shower, I find threads of him in the grooves of my heart, the knot in my shoulder, the bound fascial tissue of my thigh.
He is free.
Yet the patterning of enslavement, its unseen spell and my lingering addiction to it is ever-present. The yearning for someone to tell me what to do and how to do it comes to the surface and I cringe.
My tears summon the free man.
He extends his palms and blesses me with the colors of the rainbow.