I spin out like a rudderless ship, gallons of water spilling in from below as my yellow slicker does nothing to break the ocean’s stabbing chill. My security wanes like the moon’s phases, but I position my hand to cast shadow puppets in its flashlight-like glow. At half my size, some carnies won’t let me past their rusty chains, and they’re not who I blame.
With white knuckles grasping a pitchfork in my left hand and a flaming torch in my right, I fall nude from the porch into the night. Right into your arms. Again. And again.
With its dead ends and back-to-starts, the labyrinth whispers manipulations until we fall to our knees. Don’t beg and don’t pray to the gods. Wait for the sign that the coast is clear—a lighthouse that’s dark for three clicks and lit for one. Don’t dilly and don’t dally, and you’ll find the way home.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 