When I was young, my life was like a
river, straight and true, like water running over stones, each one touching the
other, each one big or small, smooth or rough, each one worn down by time. But
now the river is dry. The stones are covered in dust. They’ve lost their
luster. My memory fades.
On any other day, the images torment me. I have to push them away like an insect, they’re too quick to kill but too irritating to ignore. So I brush them to the fringe where they can’t touch me.
Yet now, as I search for them, they escape. Hidden away under years of earth nudged over by my own hand, a shallow but unmarked grave where I scramble to find them, bleeding from my fingertips, desperate to close this chapter of my life.
Learning to forgive.
Here at my table in my home at…
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