Blood Orange Periphery

21.

Something inside me is missing. A small, important thing. When did I lose it? Was it ever even there? My first therapist said I was a textbook teenager, just a hormonal thirteen year old. I was inclined to disagree and switched therapists. Then twice more. Time passed. I watched movies and read books—stories of zombie apocalypses, heartbreak, war. Those characters seemed to have it, grown into it at fifteen, seventeen, nineteen. Where was mine? Life careened down the tracks, and the missing thing became an inside joke. Just another bullet point. An unfurnished room I learned to like for its echo.

But then there are patchwork moments. These little solaces. Like the stretch between night and the sun's wake, when my lake is smooth as glass. A mirror of pinks and reds and oranges that I slice through with mindless ease. Geese fly overhead. The four haughty lady ducks refuse to move off the steps. I jump in, the world is still and I'm on fire. The swan family ignores me, and I try not to be miffed about their indifference. It's just the wind and my exhaling breath.

I float. My head rests on my buoy. I bask in the morning light, and let the water hold me. Some missing things are too big to replace, some moments are all loose threads and scissors.