I crush my latte cup in one hand. This is stupid. I don’t know what my dreams are. How does a person know what their dreams are after forty? Is having dreams even appropriate once you start using night cream and getting yearly mammograms?
A truly free spirit could handle a little bit of earth moving or sky tumbling. She might even enjoy the ride. She definitely wouldn’t blame herself for not somehow managing to hold the earth and sky in place by sheer strength of will.
So much happened in those years. I nursed my last baby and celebrated my first teenager. I concluded my teaching career. I walked with my husband through the loss of a parent. I battled with my child through a series of mental health crises. I ghosted the Church. I separated from friends. I sheltered my family through a pandemic. I never wrote about what was happening, though, only what it felt like.
Like grasping at vapor. Like fighting in a fog. Like abandoning my humanity and becoming an android. Like disappearing into myself.