Truth.

Her laughter contains the remnants of Eden. Her joy is what waters the flowers, and when her hand- that is yearning to be held- touches her fingers to the petals, vines green as the deepest forest swim up her arm, leaves melt into her soft skin, and buds take root, waiting to blossom only when her soul alights with an undefinable worth.

Lullabies are like the gentle roar of angels following the dips and twirls of the wind.

You see, Eden is about one heart. God’s heart. A heart that broke into pieces that flew into every space between the collarbone and cracking ribs of every one that ever was, everyone that is, and everyone that will ever be. The pieces create a piercing mosaic that shines through Eden’s walls that were crumbled by fallen footsteps.

To be comforted in Eden means to rest back against the trunk of a strong and steadfast tree. To feel the lines and design of its bark taking the place of the contours on a comforter’s chest. Her eyes then blink slowly, focusing on the branches above her head being swayed by the wind that wipes tears off the mosaic’s
individual tiles.

The soil is soft beneath her toes, allowing her to sink in so that she can no longer run away from or even towards the garden, but instead massage her feet with each step so that she can rest there. So she can lay her burdens down, and let them scatter into seeds. The seeds grow quickly in the cool mud, and out springs perfect roses that have no thorns.

Tears have liquefied all the sinful applies, forming a hot cider that quenches her thirst for comfort. She takes her dreams and weaves them, weaves them into a unique nest that is always within her reach. The eggs created from such hope are pale, dusted pink, and delicate. When they hatch though, you would not believe the pallet of blue and purple that surrounds the bird with each glint of light
coming from the promise on her ring finger.

The anguish and despair and self hatred, the lies, they pour out of the holes in her oldest and softest jeans. They flee into the cocoons that withhold a fluttering beauty. The shells break and clasp onto the branches they are mounted on, and help create new branches with fluttering vines of scarred and knotted woods, like the hands of her grandmother.

The wings of the born butterflies have eyes that never close and need no rest during their journeys, they simply take in the truth of Eden’s reality.

When she pushed her hair behind her ear, the clouds let out an awing sigh at the grace of the movement and beauty of seeing her rosy cheeks against such porcelain skin. The sigh picks up wind, forcing her curls to come undone once again, so that the clouds may find another chance to warm their airy souls at the sight of such beauty.

As she stands on Eden’s highest hill, closest to the gate, she looks at the mosaic in Eden’s center. The crumbled walls are behind her- out of sight. As she looks upon the glory before her, she still wonders where He put her piece, and she starts to laugh even as she cries, because even though she does not know where her piece fits, where it is going, or what it means to anyone, to anything, she knows it is being planted by Eden’s sole Gardener.