To let whatever happens, happen. 

 

This was her motto for life after him;

after seven euphoric years were cut short 

into eight weeks of sorrow and self-guilt.

 

She can still hear his voice, his footsteps,

in the silence of summer nights,

when ladybugs fall to slumber and

fireflies awake “with space to… breathe”.

 

Only “in a state of chaos” did she realize 

that he was the one forever she had to lose;

the one thing that separated her from 

willfully existing and serenely lifeless.

 

But she will search for him in all beauties of life:

in the periwinkle spuds that line her gravel driveway;

the shadows of trees that preview the shining freckles of a sky in rest;

in the “yin and yang fluidity” of changing seasons;

the fluttering of eyes within the wake of a reflective dream; 

in the s-sounds of a whisper;

the foaming of a falling wave.

 

She has learned to find comfort in the silence;

to “take it easy… before [she] break[s];

to live for herself, rather than for anyone else.

To let whatever happens, happen.