Standing barefoot in the kitchen, eating a banana with almond butter (spreading it bite by bite) under the comforting light of the microwave, fresh from a long bath, a big cry, with pin curls under wraps, Debussy playing loud on the speakers while the lake, which hasn’t rested for a second all day, throws itself again and again at the rocks that say, “here is where dry land begins, even if we are soaked down to our ancient beginnings.”
I, too, am soaked. I, too, am changing shape. I, too, am the moment that says “here is something new,” and because I do, it begins.
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