It’s on the tip of my tongue, the tip of my toes—this reachless thought calling my name. Likely good medicine, the kind needing a prescription, followed to a T. That’s not me. Yet, doctor’s orders.
It’s a longing to lay outstretched, muscles unloaded, the permission and the push to unknot my knots. A shift—the flip of a switch—off.
I forget, walking several feet down the hall, but the indents of my bare feet in the carpet threads give me away. Retrace, reverse, just as I came. Off. What a relief.
A habit turned bad-to-good. In my hood, the streetlights come on. The rules of the road, truth be told, are getting old.
I yearn for a high-altitude breeze, above the trees, just me and a new eaglet learning to soar. I’d teach it the ropes—how to lift hopes only so high—and then we’d cruise down together, my backpack left behind, off into another adventure.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 