Are they spirits or memories of lives onces lived? Some moments don’t quite fit into the rational world I live in—but they stay. Like sea mist that clings to skin long after the tide has gone out.
Somewhere in my thirties, the mirror tilted—not all at once, but slowly, quietly. There’s a grief in this age, not loud but waiting politely, for the selves I didn’t become and the paths now closed. It’s a season of unbecoming and becoming, where the woman I was and the woman I will be hold space in the same cracked teacup.
