Breathing Again

 

Breathing Again

I’m starting again. Slowly. Tentatively. Finding my rhythm one shaky step at a time.

I had a dream—the nomadic Grandmother dream. It began with the caravan, my mother, the whole shebang. But it flattened quickly. A man tangled up my plans, derailed my visions.

Two months in, my mother left to help my daughter care for her little one. I moved in with the man of my new dreams—the man under the tree. But the tree wasn’t what I thought. It was a cactus. And it left me bruised, broken, and questioning everything.

I escaped to my daughter, rattled and confused. A day or two turned into weeks—I couldn’t decide, couldn’t focus. Slowly, plans began to form. No dreams yet, just plans.

A couple of weeks with one daughter, a couple with the other, a few days with my son. And with the help of my son and son-in-law, I’ll set up at the caravan park. The same one where it all ended. This time, I’ll camp alone—me, myself, and I.

Maybe I need this. Time all alone, no one to talk to, just quiet to reflect. To breathe. To remember who I am. To prove to myself that I can do this.