Why did you hide from us, my sister?
I’m tired, and I do not know that I can equal your obvious brilliance. Today, you were like the first nuclear explosion to us. One moment: the dreary, dusty, dirty life of the desert. The next: a blinding flash of light and heat, destroying everything in it’s path.
To think we left you buried in the conventions of convenience, like the ores that fueled that first bomb…
Why did you hide behind the mask of triviality you wore for us every day? Why didn’t you try to bridge the gap of silence between us?
Were you afraid? Was the sum of your experience that you could trust none of us to appreciate you for who you are?
We hinted at it, all the time, in bland generalities that were ironically close to the truth. However, our parlance became a reduction of you, and you slipped behind your veil—a veil I can see you have been making and using so skillfully all your life up to now.
To think I slumbered in my decay, when such an incredible mind lived in such close proximity…
We all did it, and I am, for my part, totally ashamed. But I see you now. What’s more, my dear, wounded sister, MY BROTHER sees you once again—and he is as desolate as storied Babylon, as devastated as mighty Troy.
Now that we see—that we grasp what we always knew (though the knowledge faded thanks to the dulling of our minds against our own suffering)—will you flee from us to fulfill the prophecy you have spoken against us?
Or will you let us honor you for who you are?
Will you let us in?
