For many years, I placed my trust in a few rickety bridges.

Their planks sagged,
Their binding were far too loose,
But I didn’t know how to mind.
I padded with false security over dark waters that frightened my very soul.
They were deep, unknown waves-
Sure to crash and consume if I looked for too long.
At least that’s what my bridges told me.
And within my childhood wisdom,
I believed that my bridges were keeping me safe.
Soon, the boards that I had to stumble across began to splinter my trusting feet,
The ropes began to tangle,
And I began to bleed.
Oh, how I bled.
The bitter blood of loss seeped from my soles,
And soon from my very soul.
The knots burned my palms,
The very hands I held out in prayer,
Their efforts were scorned.
The bindings whipped my face,
Tore the saint’s verses from my lips.
The dark water below nipped at my heels,
Scarier, closer than before,
But welcoming somehow.
And as I desperately fought to stay on the bridges,
The only “almost solid” ground I had ever known,
I made a choice.
The fight had not abandoned me,
Instead, the grace of independence had adopted me.
And I,
I free fell into a sky of an ocean.
And I,
I was home.
And I,
I realized with absolute certainty
That I had always known how to swim.
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