Trauma has no expiration date, no “use by” stamp, no certificate of death.
Just when you thought, “Well, I’m glad that’s through,” its fungal rot wraps silent slithering tendrils ‘round your ankles, neck, and arms. Loose at first. Invisible at first. Like a mosquito on your neck, too small to tip a tiny scale or even draw a flick, until a lump appears as fiendish as Vesuvius.
Suddenly those gossamer strands bulge thick, tighten, yank. And now you’re on your face, kicking at the monstrous tentacles they’ve become, fresh and fleshy as the day they first ripped into your reality, undoing everything.
Like Nemo, you chopped them off a hundred times. Speared that giant devilfish through its triple heart. Like Ned, you killed it good and dead. Or so you thought, because there it is, wrapping ‘round about you with its neverending arms and legs.
How many times do I have to kill this damn thing?
When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead. But he laid his right hand on me, saying, “Fear not, I am the first and the last, and the living one. I died, and behold I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of Death and Hades.
Thanks be to God.