The chameleon still changes.
With every passing minute she transforms.
From “Mother” to “Wife” to “Business-woman” to “Fisherman”
Her color is never stationary.
But her essence is.
The very core of her. Past her clothing, past her skin, past her ribs and veins.
Deep deep inside of her heart you find her core.
And it remains static.
It is the color of betrayal from her past.
It sings a song of longing for love.
It bleeds insecurity.
It prays a prayer of loneliness.
It cries the tears of brokenness.
She needs love.
She needs to feel secure. She needs to feel surrounded.
She needs to be mended.
And in rare occasions, she turns her own color
and you see. You see who she is.
I have grown a garden of love and security and acceptance and forgiveness
and I pick flowers for her and place them at her door step.
They die.
They remain on the door step.
But the smell creeps beneath her door and permeates her life.
She knows what is waiting for her.
She hears the 3 knocks.
All she needs to do is pour herself into a mold of her own,
turn the handle
and open the door.