remembering, and righting our selves

Sometimes it seems like we are all tiny sail boats, tossed about in a viscous sea storm, caught in wind going the wrong direction, stranded with invisibility. Sometimes it seems like I offer tiny stories out into the world, my own words bound up with my feelings, and they get lost in the wind, blown away, misread because it’s so damn foggy, forgotten when the waves crash between us and your tiny sail boat flips upside-down, and I don’t even know that you’re upside down, all I know is that the story bound with feelings, the tender offering between us is lost, and the wind is icy and cold, and the storm continues to brew, and we all just feel so not together.

But then I remember.

I remember that there is you. You three, my cohort, you who get it, you who know when to send a text message, you who’s stories collide with my own, you who know exactly what to say and when to say it. You who show me, again and again, that we can right our selves after scans and after appointments and after nightmares and after insensitive comments. I am so insanely grateful to call you my little cohort, all four of us diagnosed in a fifteen month span, all four of us charting the post-treatment waters, all four of us texting like mad and ordering fancy juices at dinner and filling out the circle at Callanish. I remember that I am part of this tribe, and we are in this together.

And you, I remember what you taught me. I remember that you told me to be in the present, that you showed me how to ground myself in what I know to be true. I remember when you sat and talked with me though words were never said, I remember when you made with me, creating something new, something pulled from deep inside my heart. I remember that I feel well, that the air tastes good to breathe, that what I know right now about my life is real, and good, and true. I remember how you showed me to surround myself with comforting things, to feel the hard parts and wrap myself up in warm fuzzy blankets and hot baths and good friends’ arms. I remember when you taught me that. I remember that I am whole, and that I know how to right myself.

I remember we can right our selves. I remember when we sang together, and when another we before this we, when that we sang together, and the we before that, and the we before that. I remember when we cried underneath the stars, and watched the sunrise turn the sky completely red, and I remember when we surrounded each other with love on our special days, and when we helped each other right our selves on hard days. And I remember that we are whole together, and that we know how to right our selves.

I am so grateful that I can remember.


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