with love, rielle

Before your eyes you held steady the image of what you wanted me to become: living again. It was this hope of yours that kept me following.

"That I'm enough as I am," said the boy.

Here we are at the bottom. Almost empty. It's like confetti, these dried remnants you find in the street for a party no one invited you to. But they used to be, I can admit, part of something beautiful.

And sometimes i have kept feelings to myself because I could find no language to describe them in.

October was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry trees along the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy green, while the fields sunned themselves in aftermaths.

which sometimes helps me and sometimes opposes me.

“I thought about it often; if it went back to its nest, if it kept looking if it kept singing… but more than anything, I hoped it passed away softly. Peacefully, in the middle of a dream.”

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked . . . I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.