Homage to Beverly (from Winter’s Tale)

As I sit outside and let the cold dry air seep into my lungs, a tear rolls down my cheek as I look up at the nighttime sky exclaiming, “I didn’t mean to say I was her!” But like everything else some part of me knew, that we willowy creatures are far too fragile for this world. It does not seem to matter of which era you were born unto, it is simply that we are from a world much more kind and graceful. True there are glimpses of poise and compassion here, but not nearly as pervasive as in our willowy beings.
Beverly didn’t have to say much, if she said anything at all. It was her being whtat I interpreted as an asthmatic that spoke to us readers and evoked such emotion. Challenged by breath she did walk in between two worlds, for when one sits on top of rooftops in the wee small hours or outside on their deck quietly receiving the cold dry air it takes effort to catch each breath. Alone it becomes easy to slide, to slip, to perhaps disappear into another world when all we really want is to walk with ease, sip a warm drink inside a crowded pub, and well, become part of the living again.
It was her voyeur that found beauty in her reserve, her fragility. In some strange and mysterious way he understood the cold dry air was as welcomed as a sleigh ride across the frozen lake for her. Ahh Peter Lake you brought life to her with all of yours.
I can only imagine what life was like for asthmatics at the turn of the 20th century. It’s hard enough now with the dizzying side effects of Adavair puffs, inhalers, and nebulizers, but they save lives whereby, Beverly was not spared. Crowded atmospheres discourage us. We feel light headed and slight of breath. Amongst the living our concern turns from conversation to worry as we search for our inhaler, now as precious as our cell phone—there is too much riding on the inhaler’s loss. The gnawing ache in our backs reminds us of the continued effort our lungs must make, the energy it takes to simply be. My acupuncturist tells me the lungs represent grief and it is my left lung that is weak – “close to you heart” she smiles. To heal I must gather my strength, energize my chi with nourishing food and thought, take tiny walks, and when I am stronger swim, stay warm, the warmth will give me strength. Rest, sleep, rest and sleep some more . . . . .In the middle of the day she gives me a treatment, turns off the lights and says good-night, rest now. I close my eyes and my lungs begin to open back up to the world of the living as I tell them one day I know that some form of a Peter Lake will rise back up just to come and watch over me.