Here, I hold suicide in the soft palm of my heart, buoying it on the gentle trampoline of this beating organ that knows only love. Here, I understand an experience that I sunk inside and fought against. With my hand on my heart I answer the dreaded "What happened to your mom?", and survive the earthquake it launches, settling it with the swaying ocean of understanding that these pages' cursive writing built. You can build an ocean, I've learned.
If I could go back, I'd tell myself that a pain is not something to fix, a wound is not something to heal, for 'pain' and 'wound' are incorrect terms: An experience is instead an opening, and to be curious for the many years along the way to understanding. But we can't read a book backwards, especially the one we are writing.
I'll burn them eventually, as the fire is the only home for something that is only yours. I hope the world takes them back as evolved energy, as a gift, as a roadmap for the next young girl who lands in these windy sands and looks up to you, the sky and the stars, for guidance.
Might we all come to understand what is hard to understand, fully and completely.
