They say that the path we take leads us where we need to go, that each moment and person is part of the journey that leads us in the right direction. But, sometimes, and only sometimes, I wonder if that direction is wrong. I’ve never believed in fate or predestination or “God”. I don’t think that our paths are cut out for us or that we have no control. I think that when we hop in our car at 1 a.m. on a Thursday and drive two hours south to knock on a man’s door just to see if the words match the man we change the story. Sometimes, at 2 a.m. when the house is quiet my mind wanders. I question if the pictures on the wall, and my fifteen plants and two cats are enough, or if somewhere along the way I made a misstep. Or if I’m just looking back and questioning to put it all into perspective.
I’ve always thought of my life that way - as if I’m an old woman writing the story of a young girl. Maybe this is all just a dream and I’m reflecting back on the day when I was just a 26 year old woman with fifteen plants and two cats. My heart knows there’s more to my life than that. There’s moments at the tops of waterfalls with the rain falling through the trees as he stared at me underneath jungle leaves the water plastering hair to his forehead. There’s moments of watching a Mother open the casket of her only son, too young to be gone and her to young to mourn her child. There’s moments of joy that only can be described as fulfilling and intoxicating. And there’s moments of pain that I can only recall with a stabbing ache and eyes filled with tears.
I feel as if I’m holding out for something lost. My hands reaching towards broken bottles and empty pages in books that were hand-bound for me to write and draw. But, there’s nothing on the paper. There’s nothing to say or show the world. Because something is missing.
Across the room there’s silence and in my heart there’s quiet, an angry stillness. Like the sea right before the storm, the tide is churning below the waves. The soft, gentle waves that lie and fool me into thinking that tomorrow will be another day of calm, not chaos. And I reach out, across cold sheets where sometimes another lies, and most of the time no one to see if there’s a back I can press my hand into. Just the warmth of knowing someone is there despite the monster that rages inside. But the bed is still empty. The chapter remains unfinished, begging for completion like the desert begs for rain.