Flying High

I've felt really good as of late. Movies and taking walks with babies for hours. Talking on the phone until its too late. Writing. Sleeping. Reading about people who live lives as simple and as real as my own. Thinking too deeply about one thing. Thinking too little about another. Flipping a coin and not even bothering to peer at how it landed, simply shoving it into my pocket and smiling because I don't need a stupid coin anymore. I've got my hands. I've got my lungs. The ground beneath my feet.

I should go home soon. I need to recharge in that way that I can, only when sharing a room with my mother. She reminds me of deep dark holes full of secrets that she's not afraid to share, to scream into your ears until you understand: "don't get pregnant", "men are dogs", "you're hair is dry", "i love you". I need to believe in myself again, to remember where I started. To tell my sister that she can do anything, no matter what any tom dick or harry says. To tell my brother that he has always been the bravest of the five, the boy with the big head and an even bigger heart. I want to watch birds take flight. I don't care if they're pigeons. As long as they disappear after a few moments. As long as I'm convinced that they had somewhere else to go.

I'm ready.