11th Week.

Jean Francois Millet-237238

As I drive through the somber streets within my mind, I am reminded of the 11th week. The October air was crisp and cool. Breathing the air was as strict as wintergreen, blasting into my lungs. I enjoyed this, though. Running was my favorite. Air forced into the vulnerable air pockets that encouraged me to keep going, keep breathing and keep living. I wasn’t running today, but sharing this hour with three of my favorite people. Once a month we celebrated our love with a breaking of bread, a pouring of wine, and a moment of stillness. It was communion with each other. It was communion with our Maker. We decided, linked in arms, to head to the pier and lay our backs to the water with our faces towards the sky. It was almost 11 pm. It was the 11th hour, an hour before the break of a new day. It was the moment the stars became ours as we named them.
Mysteries, confusions, and fantasies would stir as we tried to envision what our lives would be, where life would take us, and how we would turn out. A mother, victim to mental illness, a mother hard to read, a mother on a mission, and a mother not allowing the unfailing distance to interfere with her deep longings.
Were we just walking the paths engraved or more so welcomed by our own mothers? Were we to follow in their footsteps? Was that our fate? Were their lives the blueprint for our very own? We just didn’t know, but what we did know, it was getting colder and there was more wine to drink. Sometimes to not think was a blessing, but for some of us, it was the daily challenge we faced and continued to face.
As the candle gave warmth and glow, an invitation for us to speak candidly and openly, we did. Crossing lines only bosom buddies, kindred spirits do, we joined our hearts together and acknowledged life as a philosophical debate in which no one has an answer for; only an opinion, something we unsurprisingly are all unrestricted to.

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