IX
Dearest Meadow,
I am looking for the lamb inside the box. I swear I used to see her—soft, delicate, and brimming with promise—but lately, I find it hard to see anything beyond the paper.
There is something inside me that I lost between fifteen and twenty-three. I can’t remember what it is, and honestly, I’m unsure if it was ever truly there. Only the gaping absence reminds me of what once might have been. Occasionally I am granted glimpses, as the sun slips below the horizon, but too often I am left, secluded by the stagnancy.
I am aching for independence yet I stumble before the starting line every time. I no longer feel like I am learning to crawl but my legs still collapse beneath me before I can run.
Everything inside me shifts like sand beneath my feet, unsteady and elusive. I float through time and space, ambiguous and untethered. I can daydream but when it comes time for action I fold like a fearful fawn, retreating to places where I cannot be touched.
Today I will pray for 44 sunsets, with light soft enough to remind me that endings can be gentle.
All I can do is let the snake bite me, in hopes of emerging bright, golden, and glowing. The sun will streak behind me, my body left behind, an offering to the sand as I take my first steady steps forward. Everything will glisten once I emerge.
I will move to a planet. A place where beginnings are tender, and the sun waits to meet my gaze. Somewhere, where, if I wish, I can watch 1440 sunsets in one day. A new beginning, bathed in light, where I can pull the lamb from the paper and cradle her, remembering what it is to see.
Always Yours,
Dorothea