Come back to me, Molly. It’s been a strange time- hiding you from the world in order to explore new ways of telling your story. I’m not sure I like this anymore.
You chose me. Remember? At the library? 15 years ago. As your spirit wandered restlessly on the viaduct, you passed through me with a surprised breath and your soul snagged on mine. Tell my story, you whispered.
And for 15 years, you and I have explored so many ways to tell it. But of late, I feel like I’ve lost you. I miss the unpeeling of the onion, the uncovering of truths, teasing out the knots to reveal the thread, the connections. Your slow reveals.
I miss the smell of old newsprint, the texture of old flannel, the moss on the forest floor.
I miss you walking on Pender, you at the end of my lane, you sitting in my living room.
Have I let you down? Did I fail to trust that you are guiding? Have you met my mom and dad? Are you safe?
Come back to me, Molly. Let’s start again. From the beginning. I have paper and pen in hand. Tell me what’s next.