We all have our own Lygeia, a lost love, a whole plotline gone astray. You, giver and destroyer of life. I marked days and months by that night. Nine was the hardest number.

I lost a dream. A dream of what America should be. Respect, equality, looking into the eyes of another as another part of the soul. What you gave me in turn was the knowledge of what really makes history, brutality and force. I can’t bring myself to write the reality of what happened. Just abstractions.

Searing pain, feeling helpless like a child. Suffering a mortal wound.

I survived.

I don’t know why.

Neither of us could handle a child, but it wasn’t your sole decision. I was left a living crime scene, unable to escape from the horror of what happened. I spent so much time alone, seeking peace.

The smell of burning plastic. The feeling of suddenly being lifted away. Everything breathing at once. The realization that the body and life is a part of the earth…it can be altered but never broken. Forms pass but aren’t lost.