The Year of My Undoing

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There was a woman I held dear.
She was not my mother
but she loved me as her own.
I picked flowers in her yard and swung in her hammock and
watched her make art.
I watched her in the year of her undoing.

I quietly observed the way her mind
puzzled, distorted, melted even.
She adored and hated us all.
I remember feeling uneasy, but curious.
Like watching a caterpillar go into
its dark place.
Is she dying?
Is this the end?

Now, I am that woman.
This is the year of my undoing.
According to Merriam-Webster, I am experiencing
“an emotionally significant event.”
This is not news to me.
As per the definition, something decisive is supposed to happen.

It will be my liberation.
Perhaps tears and mirth will carve wrinkles on my face.
But my body will continue to bend towards joy.
Freedom means I am never too much or
too loud or too glorious.
It means that my undoing will be a plot device.
And the story blooms.
Trust me.

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