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Coming Again

She sat at her desk. It had been a nice walk from her home to the place that often felt more like home than where she lay her head at night. It had been a long while since she had picked up her pen to write anything but something compelled her to write today. Perhaps it was the rain that seemed to wash away all of the refuse that muddled the world. With the cleansing rain went her indecision and ambiguity. She was remembering how she had come to this place, this desk, this life. Somehow she had forgotten how she had come to be over the years. Those memories had been buried under "To Do" lists and obligations and her own desires to please others. Who knows when it became more important for her to honour other's stories for her than herself but it had.

In the quiet moments, on walks or the silent melodies of rain falling, she longed to run to trees and earth and write her connection with the world as she had done in the past. Today would not be the day to drive out of the city, leaving the voices and obligations to sit with playful crickets and frolicking birds. She would need to stay and find comfort in the faces of her family smiling back at her from frames on every surface. She would need to feel the connection to the earth in the plants that she kept on her desk and see the playfulness of memories that surrounded her.

As her pen it paper and words gently flowed from a newly made stream, hesitant and tentative, she could feel herself coming back. She was coming again to the person she had neglected. It would take time but she hoped that, one day, she would be able to see herself again. Her true self was coming back. Coming again.
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