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| White as a Holy Ghost by Meg Mickelson |
“Drowning oneself in the devil’s
water has never promised to retain the dignity of the son of God.” Repetition.
Repeating, “Drowning oneself… drowning yourself”. Self-control was all it took. She bit her tongue while whispering this
mantra and waiting for saliva to quench her thirst. Refusal dried her mouth and eyes as with
every blink she would deny herself another sip.
She stared blankly at the faucet. Drip. That drip intruded her memory,
rapidly churning and swirling into the devil’s river pulling her son from her
grasp, and whipping her back to the reality of her dry, parched tongue. She lost her son, and though out of her control,
she vowed to never forfeit to the devil again.
And so she sat, and she remained unmoved, unacknowledged by tears as
they had no water to draw from. Her
body, a well, had long been empty, tearing cracks in her already abrasive
skin. Splits in her lip contributed to
her inexpressive and inelastic demeanor; her tongue giving no aid as its
dryness stuck to her lips dryness further damaging her tender skin as she
pulled them apart. Tortured by her
inability to drink from her memories which were still so consumed with water, the
water which had consumed her son. And
still she vowed to herself, “Drowning oneself in the devil’s water has never
promised to retain the dignity of the son of God.” It is in this she found comfort in the
reminder that what she was doing was right, was pure, and was holy. As she would never again allow the temptation
of the devil’s water to overcome her.
Never again would she agree to drink the sin that killed her son. She remained untouched by the poison… and so
she was clean. Clean as the son of God, prepared to stay or leave as a woman of
purity, uncorrupted by weakness. She
honored her son. The sacrifice in which
he gave, making the truth accessible to her, and now she knows. She knows to never again submit to the devil’s
water. So let her be parched, dry,
cracked, split… let her hands shake with thirst. She departs this world a clean woman. And as she slipped into that river with her
son, she fell back to her memory. The
memory of the devil’s water, her hand on her son: reaching, grabbing, pushing… holding
him down beneath the river. “Drowning oneself in the devil’s water has never
promised to retain the dignity of the son of God.”
