My therapist always said to breathe.
In, and out.
It's a way to ground yourself, she would say, running her long fingers over files. Sometimes, we forget why we even live day to day. Why we even make the effort.
Breathing helps with that.
So I breathe.Peering over the cliff, I close my eyes and fill myself with the ocean breeze, imagining it filling all the empty spaces inside of me, making me whole.
Listen.
I hear... the waves crash on the rocks splayed on the ocean shore, and I imagine the water shattering like glass. I hear seagulls squawking, fighting to make themselves heard. I hear the ocean breeze, whispering. I hear the rain coming down, pitter-pattering on my skin, a musical rhythm.
See.
I see... clouds floating in the distance, and I must remind myself that we are the ones moving, not them. I see my feet, planted on the ground, and it's amazing to me how I can be grounded yet also so high it seems I could touch the soft sky.
Feel.
Feel.
What do I feel?
I feel like I am flying, and not only because of the height. Because of the tingling in my fingers, my toes, everywhere, that tells me I am so close to freedom I could taste it; just reach out, step forward, and it could be mine.
I am ready but... I stop for a moment, because if life has taught me anything, that is to not rush.
Looking out into the blue-gray sky, as if it couldn't decide what to wear today, I see my mother's eyes, soft and kind.
She has the prettiest eyes.
Whenever I would tell her this, she would throw her head back and laugh, her hair slicing through the air, and say, Oh these eyes. What of them?
She wasn't one for beauty, though she was gifted with it; heavily. Whenever she would walk; sashay, really; people would turn heads, whistle. But she never looked to them, never granted them her acknowledgement; she would only hold her head higher, her nose pointed to the heavens, and look straight forward.
What people routinely forget, she would remind me, is the most important thing is what is in front of them.
I never understood that, but now I believe I do.
My dreams of my mother, her kind smile, her hands reaching for mine, are interrupted by the crash of cymbals that is a clap of thunder. I look to it, its pronounced shape lighting up the otherwise dull but peaceful sky. Looking at its ferocity, I can't decide if I appreciate it disturbing the silence.
Another thunderclap echoes, and I am transported to my father whooping and clapping as my younger sister, Amelia, finished first at a track meet. I could still remember everything vividly; the sun shining directly into my eyes, the book cover rubbing against my palm, the metal seat digging into my tailbone, the ringing in my ears from my father's incoherent yelling.
I also remember the curl of his fingers on the inside of my elbow later that day, his hot breath in my ear, the distant rumble of the engines of cars as they left the stadium's parking lot.
Don't be a loser.
My father had always been disappointed in me. Never abusive; at least physically; but I could always feel his eyes burning into my back, as if he was waiting for me to magically transform into some kind of prodigy, that I was wasting his time.
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Short Story and Poem Collection
Short StoryHere are a few short stories and poems I don't know what to do with.