She stands on a hill overlooking a valley, facing her past and present.
Somewhere in the distance is the unexpressed future.
A tug of her heart strings as she grips what Should Be to her breast.
Her curled, fisted fingers ache,
But still she persists:
It should be . . . It’s supposed to be . . . It needs to be.
And yet it doesn’t matter how hard she clenches
because the powdery contents in her hand shift under pressure,
never secure no matter how hard she tries to make them fit.
A deep trembling begins.
It travels from her wrist, to her arm, to her chest, to her soul.
And it’s either let go or be shaken apart.
The valley before her is green, is fresh, is unknown.
Her toes brush against the edge of a small precipice.
Her precipice.
With no other choice but to end or be rent,
she extends her fist before her.
At first unwilling, her fingers refuse to open—
they’ve forgotten the action.
But so gradually, first one then another learns again
And suddenly a graceful cascade of the rest follow.
There is her palm. There is her dream, her mask, her role.
She sees it for what it is. It is all dust.
Remnants of a past too greatly scripted.
And then she takes what feels like her first true breath
Watching, reborn, as an insistent breeze sifts the ashen powder from her hand, blowing it all throughout the valley.
Empty, still extended, she suddenly realizes
There is now space for MORE
Space for her.
With one careful step over the edge,
the grass rises to lift her forward
Out of her past into the unknown present surrounding her.