Diamond or coal?

That sober, melancholy hood slides back, serving the uncontrollable chemicals as they flash like a bolt of lightening across my expression. Irises sharpen, jerking her direction, kindling with recognition and wonder. Surprise dislodges my square jaw, allowing a sudden blurt to take a traitorous, suicidal leap, "Ranjiri!?" The name flies out with more force than intended. Behind us, old mother remains unchanged -- easily accepting sudden unimportance. Nostrils swell anxiously, drawing her identity into the vault. Bittersweet memories froth on the surface of my heart; anointing it with gratitude, fear and hope. These patched legs quiver, ready to canter the distance between us -- they bray furiously at their meager allowance of three steps. "A-aye," agreement comes with wavering pitch, but it gentles as these charred lips pinch into a firm, recoverable line. "The rift grants life," mayhap it was arrogance to entertain the idea that my situation was unique; but it couldn't be known (for sure) if anyone else had come into these poisoned lands from beyond the clearing (a cultural, figurative place of final rest.) My fascination momentarily takes a detour -- irises glide across her ebon coat, expecting to find damage. The demons who reside here often stole far more than they gave; and without motivation. Moments later, cool relief alleviates any concern. She appears -remarkably- unscathed. But -- as these eyes backtrack -- I wonder if she (like myself) teeters on the edge of a destructive knife; one that could send her plummeting toward salvation or damnation. Did those blood colored eyes plead for solid, familiar ground -- did they war to retain sanity and evade grief?