Dear You,

I traveled across the world, danced nude in the forest, woke covered in flowers and drowning in a sound bath. We reconciled will with courage, acknowledging neither won. I sat with men in their weakest moments, men I’d once admired for their strength, and their tears on my hands melted my facade. News of my father’s death was happenstance; I grieved alone, the soul whose dust had long ago turned to rain.

The children grew, becoming men and women, and my heart, in all states, is full. I think of you often, and sometimes more, but I’ve stopped looking, waiting, or hoping for what was never mine.

My father’s death revealed a truth about love I had avoided. I am unapologetically raw, steadier now, still working to quiet the ego. It lives in my eyes, my energy, my heart. It is resilient even through suffering, so this isn’t enough. It isn’t enough to pray for humility, or to confess that the spirit of want still grips the frayed threads of my life like a starving child begging for food.

I’ve learned to speak in checkmate, but only on my knees. Presence arrived and gripped our shoulders with such force that looking back was not an option, and this is the beauty: to feel your hands, always.

Love,
Me