I wait, breath held, in this clumsily constructed doorway. You’d expect better of a woodworker’s daughter. You’d think I’d be skilled at right angles and plumb lines.
I ,too, thought that I’d be further along by now.
But I’m strong. You have no idea how strong I’ve become. And hopeful. I hold it in my sun spotted hands like the winged creature it is. Still learning to fly.
Part of me wants to slam this amalgamation of days behind me. Part of me wants to leave it open. Just a crack.
Just in case.