literature

Be Fearless Chapter 19 Home

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~ Letting go means to come to the realization

that some people are part of your history,

but not part of your destiny.  ~

– Steve Maraboli

 

Dear Journal,

I thought you were the dumbest idea Leonardo ever had.  Well, except for the stupid spirit quest.  I want to still think that.  I want to hate you, because you sit there staring at me from my desk, beckoning me to come write in you.  And the things that pour out of me when I pick up that damned pen… They hurt.  They make me feel.  

The same way he makes me… feel.  

And it sucks.  And I hate you.  I want to scribble over the words until they can’t be read, then I want to tear out the pages and burn them to purify myself of the hell that I’ve written.  That I’ve lived.  That I survived.  Of the wounds I still bear, and the scars I will always… feel.  

This whole experience has immersed me in that ignorant four letter word and I loathe it.

FEEL

It goes against everything I was raised to do.  To open up the beating muscle in the center of my chest, to breathe in the cool breath that is life, braced to accept whatever it offers in the day, and along the way to know that he is right there, arms open, ready to catch me if I fall, ready to love me even if I fail.  And the honor of that, of him, sometimes it’s more than I can bear.  

But he accepts me as I am, and I write about that here, in you.

And I hate you for it.

I hate him for it.

I do.

Because the kind of four letter words you and he provoke, they’re a pain in my ass.  They’re weak, full of drama, angst, and crap!  And it hurts.  Many days it hurts so bad I can’t breathe, and yet you’re right there, he’s right there, and we get through it.  

How can I ever repay that?  I don’t deserve such patience, such compassion, such… forgiveness.  

The world is bright.  It’s full of color… sometimes it’s so damned bright I squint as I look into it.  It’s warm and shining… vivid and clear.  The birds don’t bother me so much anymore, of course, we aren’t in the woods now so that has a lot to do with it.  

But so does his voice.  

When everything around me is closing in like a tornado, I’m able to close my eyes and visualize his… those clear blue gems, like the best of summer days.  Then I can hear it, that smooth tone, laced with a hint of arrogance that when it’s aimed at someone else amuses me, and when it’s directed at me, finds us in the dojo glaring at each other over the flash of steel.  

It’s fulfilling.  It’s satisfying.

We had this talk on the way home from the quest, and it took forever getting there, in part for his wounds, and because I don’t think either of us wanted the journey to end.  So much uncertainty faced us, in many ways.  But then it does everyone, doesn’t it?  

And we worried for nothing.  Our family knew, I think before we did, and my father, as Leo hoped, supported us… with many ground rules, but we managed.  

Anyway, I’ve been staring at you on my desk now for weeks, knowing I might forget this, and should write it down before I did.  Then I didn’t want to write it, because I hate you.  

You signify a journey that although I now look upon fondly, it hurt, and left me open and exposed.  It changed me.  And that… scares me.  You make me confess things that I don’t want anyone to know, but at the same time, I think someone should.  And sometimes I have to read you, to remember where I was and how far I’ve come.  

So here I am.  And this is that conversation, the one Leo and I had just before we made it home…

The bugs weren’t biting.  And for once the birds, cicadas, and frogs had faded to a low cadence, like a filter had been placed between Leo and me and the world we walked through.  The dirt beneath my sneaker puffed up in delightful brown clouds, drifting and settling over his green feet moving in silent rhythm with mine.  

The sun warmed my shoulders, yet a fortunate breeze, offered by the waving cover of the forest sheltering us, cooled my neck.  We moved hand in hand, what remained of our gear carried mostly on my back.  On occasion he would offer to carry it, but I refused because of his injury.   And he respected me.  

The path ahead had grown into a familiar flat, smooth brown trail that wound through the field by the pond.  The farmhouse was just over the hill in the distance, the roof’s edge peeking above the summit.  I dropped our bags by the pond, planted his katana in the ground aside us and demanded he sit and talk to me a while before we finished the trek home.  My stomach fluttered and trembled at the thought of getting back to the real world.

“It’s going to be okay, you know,” he tried to assure me.

Whether it would or would not be mattered little at this point.  We were on the doorstep of the next part of our journey and like him I would not fear it.  Besides, we’d promised to get through whatever befell us, together.  And if I ever believed a soul with anything, I believed Leo, and he deserved my faith in him.  He’d earned it.

“Hey,” he said again, “it’s going to be okay.”

“I know,” I replied, sprawling out in the tall grass, plucking a strand of it, before tying it into knots.  “Leo, what was my – What was Splinter like, you know, when you were little?  What kind of—” a lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed but it would not shift.  “What kind of dad was he?”

Leo lowered himself beside me, lay back, and with some effort moved his good arm behind his head.  “Karai, you know, you’ll get to know what that’s like, if you let him.”

The knot took a drastic leap up behind my eyes.  “No, it won’t be the same.  We’ll be lucky if we can salvage something.  But, I’m not a little girl anymore.”

I glanced at Leo, found him looking at me, a small frown on his mouth.  I blinked, brushed my palm against my eyes and sniffed.  “Now, go on.  Tell me.  It’s okay, I want to know.”

I did want to know, even as he opened his mouth and the words he spoke hurt in the center of my chest like Shredder had stolen me all over again.  Like maybe the life that could’ve been mine died in the fire with my mother, and from the ashes of it all a new life had been born, one that ended with me lying next to the most amazing creature I’ve ever known, and part of me found solace in that.

“This one time Michelangelo—” Leo began.

He talked for hours, one story bleeding into another.

“Raph tried to stop him and got hurt.  Master Splinter cleaned the wound, gave him a hug and told him it would be alright.”

Every story was as loving as the one before it.  

“This other time, Donnie was sick and Master Splinter—”

He spoke of Splinter’s nurturing, his playing the role of mother, father, physician, and educator.  He spoke of unbelievable poverty, of illness with little to no available treatments in deplorable conditions, and downright scraps for food.

“I’ll never forget the first time he placed my katana in my hands, and told me I’d earned them.  That he was proud of me.”

No matter which way each tale ended, he assured me again and again, but it was clear he didn’t need to. “He’s a good father, Karai.”

I rolled to my stomach, parting the tall grass between my hands, staring off at the peak of the house in the distance.  All we’d had stolen from us was neither of our faults.  All that I would never know—I looked beside me—it had been given to someone else… who needed and deserved it.  And that had to be enough.  

Some things I might never let go of.  I know I’d never forget.  But I had right now.  We had right now.  Leo was courageous.  He faced every day fighting for what he believed in, despite the odds, no matter what he looked like, even knowing what he could never have.  The limitations he faced, given who and what he was.  But he got up every day, and faced life.  

And he was happy, despite all of it – his burdens, his responsibility… all that he’d survived and might have left to face.  This family was courageous, and if I was to be any part of it, I could not fear opening my heart to them.  With Leo beside me and the promise of the loving parent I always wanted just within reach, I would not.

“Leo,” I said, rising to my knees then standing on my feet.

“Yes, Karai?” he answered.

“Take me home.”

So there, dear journal.  I hate you… I love you… and thank you.

Forever,

Karai

 

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