The art of losing, they say, isn’t very hard to master. And just like every person on this planet I have lost something. People and places and memories that certain smells and seasons and dates unexpectedly bring back to me. I traded and bartered parts of who I am and who I was for bits and pieces of the people and places and memories I wanted to keep. Just like every person on this planet I have been hurt somehow. Smart enough to know better, but not smart enough to do better because I believe and dream and hope. And believers and dreamers and hopers are the exact kinds of people who push themselves too close to the edge of a very tall shelf just to take in the view.
We are fearless in the face of fear. We take chances despite the odds. We spin madly out of control with our heads thrown back on the merry-go-round, laughing wildly.
Just like every person on this planet I am learning how to forgive and remember that every person here has a heart and wishes and desires and wants just like me.
There is a box on the shelf of me somewhere. It’s contents? Nine yellow balloons. Two magnets. A field sunflowers happier far from the vase. A single jellyfish waiting to float away into outer space. I have returned the pixie dust to the proper jar, the spines of my books color-coded and aligned. Bedtime comes at reasonable hour these days, long before lavender daylight breaks and birds begin to sing, my dimples packed away, our herringbone anthology nothing more than a rind from a distant land.
In a hundred years they won’t will be telling the story of us.
If once upon a time, someone would have told me, in a certain tone of voice, “Some people will change you without your permission and you will never see it coming.”
I would still have done it all the same.