When I drift to the land of not, to a space of no more, I wonder why I came.
To grieve, to breathe, for a bit of reprieve?
Sometimes I’ll sift through the rubble of the past for answers. I’ll see a hill of bricks, pick one up, and analyze its shape and lines. Did it support the north or west side of the foundation? How often did my song reverberate off it?
Since it’s not my place to disturb, I place the burnt piece of clay back amongst the others and take a heavy breath to return to the present.
I’ll sometimes place flowers on the tougher memories like some do at gravesites. I may take scared, lost, or pained past selves and shield them from the trauma. I hold their faces and say, “Look at me. You’re going to be ok.”
And when they do, I’ll pull them to standing, place my arm around their shoulder, and lead them to my zoom-zoom mobile, where I turn up our favorite song and say, “Let’s get out of here.”