I write short stories and poetry that I mainly refrain from sharing because:
1. Most of it is bad
2. Who cares?
and
3. But, seriously, most of it is bad.
I'm sharing this one I recently wrote for a friend's birthday; a friend who inspires me deeply to be my own hero. While the tone may read somber, I crafted this piece with much joy in my heart. It is a hopeful reminder that being lost is both extraordinarily relative and a crucial part of any worthwhile journey.
1. Most of it is bad
2. Who cares?
and
3. But, seriously, most of it is bad.
I'm sharing this one I recently wrote for a friend's birthday; a friend who inspires me deeply to be my own hero. While the tone may read somber, I crafted this piece with much joy in my heart. It is a hopeful reminder that being lost is both extraordinarily relative and a crucial part of any worthwhile journey.
"Found"
for my Dearest Elena
She had given up.
Surrendered to the snow, to gravity and to herself.
Days had passed without food or shelter, love or strength.
The solemn moon hung still above, but its reflections danced across the whiteness a million moons strong.
“They’ll find me,” she thought.
But they would not.
“Someone will save me,” she shivered.
But no one could.
She reached for her pack, sore fingers struggling to find a forgotten shred of food.
But there was none.
She had lost herself long ago, and in this moment she lost her hope.
When and where she became lost is debatable. Which bend or turn had been right or wrong was too hard to discern, all that’s clear now is the cold.
Her intuition had pushed her this far, to the outskirts of nowhere on the edge of nothing. Or so the snow would have her believe.
Suddenly, a light.
A moment of fire?
She rubbed her eyes, sure the dancing moons were simply over-indulging themselves on their pristine white stage.
Another sparkle.
A flash?
This time she was sure and took off toward the place from which hope was reborn.
A branch to the face.
A root to the foot.
A face full of snow.
Up again she leapt toward what may very well be a dream.
Found.
In the middle of a clearing, perfect and circular and moonlit and…. Empty.
She trudged to the center, figuring it, at the very least, a nice enough place to die.
Then, they came.
Candles in hand, each emerged soundless from the edges of wilderness. And despite their slow advancing steps, fear escaped her.
She squinted to see who her saviors would be.
Or were they captors?
Killers?
Companions?
To run? But where?
There was nowhere to go, but face whatever fate lies in the hands of these strangers.
The final steps brought them into view, and one by one she saw their candlelit faces.
Her at age twenty.
At fifteen.
At ninety.
Her at seven ran up for a hug.
Every part of her converging on the lost woman.
Liberating her.
for my Dearest Elena
She had given up.
Surrendered to the snow, to gravity and to herself.
Days had passed without food or shelter, love or strength.
The solemn moon hung still above, but its reflections danced across the whiteness a million moons strong.
“They’ll find me,” she thought.
But they would not.
“Someone will save me,” she shivered.
But no one could.
She reached for her pack, sore fingers struggling to find a forgotten shred of food.
But there was none.
She had lost herself long ago, and in this moment she lost her hope.
When and where she became lost is debatable. Which bend or turn had been right or wrong was too hard to discern, all that’s clear now is the cold.
Her intuition had pushed her this far, to the outskirts of nowhere on the edge of nothing. Or so the snow would have her believe.
Suddenly, a light.
A moment of fire?
She rubbed her eyes, sure the dancing moons were simply over-indulging themselves on their pristine white stage.
Another sparkle.
A flash?
This time she was sure and took off toward the place from which hope was reborn.
A branch to the face.
A root to the foot.
A face full of snow.
Up again she leapt toward what may very well be a dream.
Found.
In the middle of a clearing, perfect and circular and moonlit and…. Empty.
She trudged to the center, figuring it, at the very least, a nice enough place to die.
Then, they came.
Candles in hand, each emerged soundless from the edges of wilderness. And despite their slow advancing steps, fear escaped her.
She squinted to see who her saviors would be.
Or were they captors?
Killers?
Companions?
To run? But where?
There was nowhere to go, but face whatever fate lies in the hands of these strangers.
The final steps brought them into view, and one by one she saw their candlelit faces.
Her at age twenty.
At fifteen.
At ninety.
Her at seven ran up for a hug.
Every part of her converging on the lost woman.
Liberating her.
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