I stand at the precipice of my dried up brook, and see all my broken pieces. Discarded, stolen, lost, broken-off pieces, now lie. in the dried up depths. without breath. In our Before, they were a part of me and I a part of them. We were one. Being. But in our After, we no longer belong. Together.

I look down at them and they look back at me and we are strangers, permanently torn asunder. In the space between our Before and After, we were changed. Weathered by the storms. Depressed by the oppressions. We are worn down from the sands of time that continually fall and have no way to explore a new way of being. of belonging. together.

I ache in all the places where they once resided. I long to gather them up into my arms and carry them. But my arms are not long, nor strong, for the distance and weight. So I just stand here and wait. At the precipice. And weep. With the willows by my dried up brook. And they, willowing, weep with me until the brook is no longer dry. We cover with our tears every broken piece, and I find peace like a river. With and without my pieces.

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