Not everyone is blessed to meet their Diana Barry before even starting grade school. Not everyone is blessed to have their bosom friend grow with them through learning to write and to ride horses, through mean girls and school bus crushes, through divorces and motherhood and unspeakable joys and inarticulable losses. Not everyone has a Shiney. But I am so blessed. And I do.
Today I received from Shiney a bag of the most perfect presents (the best part of which was an afternoon doing basically nothing with her and her family), and tucked amongst the treasures was this excerpt.
I wish I'd written it. The words ring in my head and heart like hammers. On tomorrow's list of things to do is finding the book these words come from:
So I am not a broken heart.
I am not the weight I lost or miles or ran and I am not the way I slept on my doorstep under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because my apartment was empty and if I were to be this empty I wanted something solid to sleep on. Like concrete.
I am not this year and I am not your fault.
I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day,
but bones are stronger once they heal and I am smiling to the bus driver and replacing my groceries once a week and I am not sitting for hours in the shower anymore.
I am the way a life unfolds and blooms and seasons come and go and I am the way the spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life.
I am not your fault.
By Charlotte Eriksson, from Empty Roads & Broken Bottles; in search for The Great Perhaps