Who would you choose?
Who would you choose?
One choice.
To give a hug.
Just one.
One name.
One person.
Anyone.
Dead or alive.
A choice.
One hug.
Just One.
I am twenty three-years-old. A twenty three-year-old Breanna is probably drunk after a night out on the town, holding onto a toilet bowl while her bestie holds her hair back. Dear reader, if you’re asking yourself why I would want to hug her, I don’t blame you. She is worthy of a hug but isn’t there someone from history I’d prefer? Of course, there are many and to your relief, I don’t choose her. I can’t choose her. Why? Well, a drunk 23-year-old Breanna did not exist.
Although she was living as a ‘chosen one,’ she was being buried alive, a slow and painful death.
I want to hug twenty three-year-old Breanna. She was a mother of 3, aged three and under and a wife of four years. Miley Cyrus was releasing hit after hit and her childhood school friends were having reunions. Many her age were traveling, partying, and attending post-secondary while living at home. The typical twenty-three-year old was shooting one too many jello shots and making those ‘you’re only young once bad choices,’ enjoying moments that turn into memories, lasting a lifetime.
Twenty-three-year old Breanna was changing her 3,687th diaper. Projectile vomit was her OOTD. “Mama” played like a broken record. Just as a charity repeatedly asks for donations, she was saying “I love you” to a man with whom she had no connection with, begging for a spark.
She was a Godly woman, a ruby in her husband's crown. Like clockwork at 5:00 pm, she welcomed her husband home from work with a ‘genuine’ smile while dinner awaited on the table. Forcing obedience, her children were ‘seen and not heard,’ as she stepped on eggshells to keep a calm atmosphere after his long day at work.
She was singing, “Jesus loves me” on repeat while tears poured down her face. Although she was living as a ‘chosen one,’ she was being buried alive, a slow and painful death. The grim reaper was gaining on her with every prayer she prayed.
Dear Reader, I want to hug her. I want to squeeze her tight, her pulse syncing with mine. I want to watch her die and witness the once condemned powerful woman we become, rise. I need her to stare into our eyes of found freedom and scream, screaming until there is no sound and no vibration left. Wiping her tears, I promise our escape from the grips of religious suicide. As she hits and kicks me, I restrain as she falls into me. To release the pain, I give her consent to hate, planting the knowledge of unconditional love.
Oh how I just want to hug her.
Just one.
A twenty three-year-old Breanna.
Me.
Us.
A hold.
An assurance.
A promise of unconditional love.
A hope.
A trust.
A hug.
Just one.
I chose her.
Who do you choose?
