He was a good man. I believe that. He never touched me inappropriately, never wrote secret notes, never lingered after dark. But he saw me—the awakening girl, the splitting chrysalis—and instead of looking away, he held up a mirror.
And I am still learning how to fly.
I never planted it. I kept it in a tiny glass bottle by my mirror. Sometimes, when the ache of that first unnamed longing returns, I unscrew the cap and smell nothing—but feel everything.
He was a good man. I believe that. He never touched me inappropriately, never wrote secret notes, never lingered after dark. But he saw me—the awakening girl, the splitting chrysalis—and instead of looking away, he held up a mirror.
And I am still learning how to fly.
I never planted it. I kept it in a tiny glass bottle by my mirror. Sometimes, when the ache of that first unnamed longing returns, I unscrew the cap and smell nothing—but feel everything.
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