Ben She Said (a Monologue)

The only thing I’m certain of is that I simplify my world. I take a piece and I cut the rest out. I simplify the world to make it more manageable. At least more bearable. I learned this when she came up to me and she said Ben. Ben she said. Ben. And she kept saying it. (silly repetition of the word/name BEN) And I heard her but I didn’t hear her. I think I looked like this (stunned, dazed, wondering, vulnerable face like a juvenile’s). And all around me there was a halo, like a milky ring around the whole world, and her auburn hair somehow slipped in with the rest of the ring and swirled madly like it was leaving one state and entering another. It terrified me. All that chaos. Right beneath my feet. There was a man in rags in India who said we have to take rafts from one shore to the other. It’s safer that way. We’ve got to hold onto something. But sooner or later we have to let go. I don’t know if I can ever let go. But I did for a moment, without meaning to. For a moment, I was robbed of my raft. I don’t know how long. But these feet felt the sweet ground again. Terra firma. Sweet–firm–earth. I don’t know whether she slapped me or whether she laughed into my ear, but all of a sudden I heard her loud and clear. Ben, she said–so simple, so good–and I understood her. I understood her and I was glad to walk with her who-knows-where, and even more glad to put my arm around her and lean against her as we walked.