“There is a sign in the park. In it, I see my reflection. I do not recognize the face that stares back. It follows me as I walk, the words etched into every step I take. How much of life is coping? When my first crush gave his heart to someone else, I hid the drawings he’d given me deep in my closet. The monster held them close so I could sleep without him creeping into my dreams. I learned how to let someone I love go. How much of life is coping? When my childhood home was no longer mine, I left my heart under the floorboards of the room where I slept. The marble I flicked behind the wall still remembered my smile. I learned how to patch the gaping hole in my chest. How much of life is coping? When the woman who raised me passed into the next world, I lost all sense of time and gravity. The freshly overturned soil soaked in my grief, offering respite from the cold headstone. I learned how to find love in fleeting moments and memories. How much of life is coping? The shattered glass strewn under these benches feels more familiar than photos of me taken only yesterday. Ivy creeps through the gravel, winding up my legs and into my heart. I stand still in spring and yet the chill of winter reddens my cheeks. The words taunt me, ever carried on the wings of butterflies drifting past. How much of life is coping? I retrace my steps back over the path I’d taken. I don’t stop until I’m standing in front of a three-year-old me, sprawled out on a concrete driveway with bloody knees. I watch the woman who raised me scoop me into her arms. She smooths my hair, brushes away my tears, and wraps me in a soft blanket. I hear her voice like it was only yesterday. As I pass the sign again, I tape a small piece of paper to it, adding only a few letters. How much of life isn’t coping?”
—10/02/2020
