When I was seven years old,
I dropped a pebble on a polished floor.

At age eight,
I dropped two more.

By eleven,
they had formed an anthill.

Harmless enough,
almost blown over by the wind.

By thirteen,
I was knee-deep in a pebble tower.

At age fourteen,
these pebbles could no longer
be deconstructed sweetly;
removing one would crumble the whole structure.

By fifteen years old,
I had a mountain.
The floor I had started on
was only visible in perfect sunlight.

When I was fifteen,
I spent all my energy structuring,
maintaining,
and worrying for this mountain
of mine.

When I was fifteen,
it started to rain.

And when I was fifteen,
a raindrop fell on a pebble.
A pebble that was part of my mountain.
My volcano.

When I was fifteen,
this raindrop knocked my pebble
out of place.
I watched it fall.
Almost in slow motion.

It bumped another pebble
which hit another
another
another

A domino of pebbles clattered
against this polished floor.
I spread my arms
and tried to hold up this mountain
on my own.

There were too may pebbles
and they each felt like boulders.

So when I was fifteen,
my mountain tumbled down.
Years of intricate planning and design
cascading to nothing
before my eyes.

And when I was fifteen, I thought this fall would kill me.