“You’ll be okay, and that should be enough,” he emphasized.
His rationale made sense:
I am in a good place. Possibility stretches wider than I can imagine. So wide that thinking about what isn’t possible feels small, unnecessary.
I escaped from the city. Here at the cabin was welcome comfort.
The forest wrapping around me. The lake lapping at the shore. The breeze sifting through leaves. Firelight glowing.
A day of greens, browns and blues.
Night time arrived. I made my bed on the couch. My eyes grew heavy.
I heard it again: You’re going to be alright, Eric.
There are some moments when that suffices. I looked forward to praying in the morning.
I woke and swam in cold water. There was symbolism in it for me. Clean off the old, walk into the new.
I tried to see myself as he sees me, and others have claimed the same. Yes, I am okay. Yes, possibility is endless. Yes, the only limits are the ones I shape.
Okay…yet…
Walking out of the water, a faint thread still stirred. Hope will not fully let go.
I live between the whisper and the gavel. The whisper of all the things to come and the gavel of what has closed, final, lost.
Promise and ache. Clouds and dirt.
For now, I acknowledge both. Because someday when I’m not paying attention, I won’t shudder at the gavel’s final strike, or even hear the encouraging whispers.