Photo by David Monje on Unsplash
story by Hope Olowo
I crack open the window to my tiny cottage. The sun pours its welcome heat upon me, and the breeze brushes past my face. I smile while gazing upon the street bustling with souls going about their daily activities. Some people burst with laughter, and others frown. Every day holds its own worries. I have lived the last twelve years buried by one particular worry. And even nature holds me in disgust.
My heart skips as a passer-by shoots me a disdainful glance. It is not out of curiosity regarding my confinement but the outpouring of a contempt-filled heart. I withdraw, shutting the window as fast as I can and throw my weight upon it as my knees weaken.
My life has become a liability. But twelve years ago, I was called Blessed. Twelve years ago, I drowned in wealth and health. Twelve years ago, I had it all.
They say, “To get what you want, you must give what you have.” But I have given all only to receive the worst. I even lost the one thing in which I would have rejoiced should wealth have deserted me: the presence of my people.
I slump to the floor in pain. There it is again, all over the floor.
The places I have been . . . the physicians I have seen—none could help. Twelve years ago, Israel called me Blessed, but here I am now, sitting on the ground in a pool of blood and tears. I feel I will drown in this ocean of helplessness and sorrow.
Voices from outside grow louder every minute. The air bears their pleas to the Son of David. I spring to my feet and fling open the window.
Mercy is what I need.
The crowd surrounds Him, the One who gives laughter and healing to the broken-hearted. Of all the physicians there ever was or will ever be, He is the greatest. The sun gleams above him; a smile births within me.
He is what I need. I’ve heard that healing lies within Him and that just His word brings the dead to life. Surely, with a touch of His garment—
I hurry through the door and push through the crowd. Let Israel pour her disgust upon me—my healing is only six feet away.
I stumble and fall against the growing crowd.
My freedom is just a touch away.
Just a touch. . . .
About Hope Olowo
Hope Olowo is an 18-year old writer from Nigeria. One day, Hope came across the Lost Pen Magazine and decided to submit a poem. Though she did not consider herself a writer, she felt stirred to write the poem, which she submitted to the magazine. To see her inspired, beautiful poem “A New Me,” download Lost Pen Magazine Issue 3.