Torn.

Well-poised emotional detachment for the past twelve months, I’ve been practicing. But biting letters split wounds in my skin when I was deemed deceased by my father. Hot tears fell from freckled faces instantly upon reading the ruthless words. They stood boldly behind cowardly keypads: You are dead to me. A metallic, bitter aftertaste, is the easiest way I can describe the flavor. Haeleigh mended me, she held my hand while uncontrollable tiny earthquakes rippled through my body.  I was reminded of a time we drove the span to Colorado, the roads were dark. Yellow streams leaked  from our headlights. Haeleigh’s anxiety rose and I stole away her negativity, calming her trepid nerves. Energy cycling. I learned it from my mother. 

A thirty six hour day followed. I wrote short stories on the back of wrinkled itinerary paper. I wrote letters and made promises to future newborns. I told myself I wouldn't print them here. Graphic, hurtful, abusive. I calmly marched through fire alarms and smoky terminals. I pressed my back against grey leather seats and waited for cabin pressure to puddle around my feet. I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote. I collapsed against dark arms and let heavy beating pound against my cheek as I drifted into sleep. I drove home to my mother and her healing soul. My beautiful mother, all I need.

I'm not okay. But I will be. Thank you, Haeleigh. Thank you Jory. Mother, Peter, Angie, Lexi, Chelsey, Caroline, thank you. My gratitude is everlasting.