worst of all, i can’t tell you how it happened. there was no burial. no evidence recovered. but one day i awoke to learn she was gone. in her place was a new name, one that tripped off my tongue. but i had to accept her existence, because i was gone. before i even knew who i was, i was no more. and i have tripped over her name ever since. we inhabit the same skin, but my attic of memories recalls her dreaming of a different life. she wanted to travel. she wanted to be free. she was a writer, a dancer, and she was on the verge of becoming a woman. by the time of death she had stopped dreaming. that much i know. it was no one else’s fault but her own. because she let the reins to her life free. now life simply happens to her. she no longer lives it, but is shackled to the day.
i think of the person i wish to be, who isn’t the image staring at me on the glass but someone else. someone with the gumption to say ‘no’. someone who does not seek approval but is content, if not damn pleased, with her own satisfaction. her clothes look like they were designed for her. everything down to the arch of her brows and the curve of her fingernails oozes confidence. she knows herself well enough to juggle any role without getting lost in it, without resentment or anger. she draws boundaries and stands guard of them, because she will not allow anyone to compromise her being. she is not me, and memory correctly tells me that she never was. but i miss her. and i hope one day we will meet again.