I fly to that crack in the clouds where that sliver of blue’s peeking through, my body torpedo-like, sleek. I fly to that crack in the sky.
I walk around this block all night long with nothing to do but to sing this song, my voice soft and strong in the dark. I walk round this block slowly, slowly.
Mama, Mama everywhere I turn, convinced each one is mine. I cringe at the whining. I miss them when they don’t want me. Can we ever just get it right? Can we ever just get it right?
I trust myself and my girls to carry ourselves through this world with pride. Not too much, not too little, but enough to be humble, enough to be magnificent, enough to see every person’s value. Two slips of paper in my pockets: The world was made for me alone. I am but ashes and dust.
No second-guesses, no if-only’s, what-if’s, no roads not taken, no doors unopened, no regrets, no laments, no remorse, no second darts. Let all that go on the wind. Fly south for the winter and then some.
I pack it all up and go wild, free to roam through this world, to pick up babies, wipe their tears, to disappear into the crowd, where my anonymity seals me like a prayer shawl.
I simply arrive. Not to find sudden enlightenment or to discover a better life. Maybe to untangle the ideas that strangle me about what could be different, other, over there in that imaginary “there” place that doesn’t exist.
No need for brilliant or beautiful. No apologies or commitments, no big dreams, no known entities. Nothing, really. Nothing, nowhere is necessary.
Just here. Just here, sitting with desire, ambition, so many questions, and the relief that comes with accepting it all under the banner of not knowing, just flying to that hole in the sky, walking around the block all night long singing, responding to the cries, and trusting myself in that fine space between now and here that nowhere becomes in the free fall.
Image: Dana Frankfort