Thursday, August 16, 2018

Letters to no one: frayed at summer's end

Dear Self,

Summer is fleeting.
Your uterus now absent.
Your heart spins like a record at the groove's end.
Find yourself, doll. Hasn't that been the plan?
Another season gone; another family anthem sown and tilled into the earth.

Your therapist is retiring. You are one of her favorite clients—if not "the"—and she's spent seven, eight years toiling to convince you that you can find your worth. You evaporate in solitude, you bloom. But your worth is always tagged to your care for someone else: the homeless, your children, your lovers. I don't know how to help you, except to give you the reassurance that both solo flight and piloting a passenger ship are worthy as long as you know who you are once you disembark. And you are allowed, no matter the fuss you put up, to ultimately disembark.

Have you learned? Will you ever? 

This is your crazy lot. This, indicative of your starting point. This, the unspooling and resolution, or merely an empty bobbin in the end. Thread and needle. Cloth. Piece it together. A quilt is long in the making.

Stitch away, child. Stitch away.

Undeniably yours,
Your worst critic

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