Fly High

Her soul burned so bright it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. She was too frail and fragile for this world, so ethereal that she left traces of herself behind on everything she touched; fine, powder-like dustings, like the fingerprints of her soul. Teeny pieces of her, scatterings of her, spread over the earth. Blowing in the wind, floating and flying and landing on those she touched the most, an ever-present memorial of the complexity that she was, had been. Of the magic that consumed her hectic soul.

But she was strong.

What We Used to Be

I walked behind her, after class. Balancing on the curb, trying unsuccessfully to occupy my brain with something beside her. As I watched, she stepped onto the curb in front of me, trying – and failing – to get her balance, and we walked, one in front of the other, perfectly in step. One of us seeing the whole world, and one focused on just a fraction of it, but it was the biggest fraction to me. And I realized that maybe letting go is okay, because after all, we’re still perfectly in step.