The Answer
“I have learned to trust when a door closes.” She said this with the confidence of someone who had been there; multiple times.
Like she had watched her existence immolate into ash while the cold bore knives through her shins.
And she had risen; or is ever-rising, metamorphsizing herself into being out of sheer grit.
I remember how she clawed her way across the floor; tendons of her wrist, contortions of sinew, wrung taut with the lust for survival-- of triumph.
And through it all, her laugh echoed; ever-singing, like she knew, that the only prize for a life well-lived,
was to survive it.















