Let Us Play Pretend

If only to lay down our heads for one night’s sleep

Marie Ronnander

My dear reader –and it is imperative to know that you, whoever you may be, are dear to me– life has been hard.

The word “human” has spilled from my mouth like honey to sweeten fowled actions committed by ignorant people. The word “human” bandages festering, polarized flaws while my own organs have been tagged and put up for sale. 

My heart has split in two: one for those I love and cannot protect, and another for those who have forgotten the metallic taste of fear. Each day, I’ve scraped down into an emptying reservoir of hope to sculpt my Pretend. 

Here, my loved-ones sit elbow-to-elbow at an oak table, in chairs we made ourselves. Each person sits in what they need, and each person brings an extra hammer. When, ultimately, a leg breaks or a foundation cracks, we clutch hands and resurrect.

In the Pretend, the children crawl onto empty laps: sibling, parent, and neighbor alike. Their haphazard creations are neatly piled in the corner, waiting to be finished when the time is right; when they want their own place. For now, they lean on love, and this love is enough. 

In the Pretend, wedding bands are woven with wheat and exchanged daily with new words and greater joy. The men chop the onions while the women rest; both weep openly with long sobs and blissful sighs. Here, we have been allowed to bear our grief, and the relief is overwhelming. 

And in the Pretend, there are many windows and many doors and many sidewalks in between. Anyone may join the table, so long as they take off their muddy shoes.