One Tin Soldier

I am a weary soldier, hardened by battle, a tattered flag by my side. Limping at the hip as history’s events play in my mind.

I waver in my power like a ship tossed to a storm; its dizzying reality slams me to my knees.

The conviction in my cells says, “You can move mountains,” while the mustard seat of doubt says, “No, you can’t.”

Then my mind returns to yesterday’s post, and with a mug full of crappy coffee lightened with powdered creamer, I’m certain the emotional risk of it’s left me with a vulnerability hangover.

A 22-year-old female client in Texas hopped on a virtual counseling session, and through tears streaming and eyes searching the ceiling, she contemplated sterilization.

Although buried deep in ashes, I found hope. She thanked me, and we upped the frequency of our meetings.

A letter here, a word there – too small of pieces to be put back together. I’m sensitive information shredded. Scattered.

I don’t know what it would be like to call Luxembourg, Sweden, or Finland home, but I’m reading personal accounts from people that do.

I fear abandoning the place I’ve called home, but I also fear if I don’t.


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