I am absolutely coming unhinged at the variety of lives I’ve lived this year. I know there’s still another whole month before the year is officially over, but the 2022 reflection is hitting me so hard lately.
I hung up our Christmas stockings last week and admired each of my babies’ last season photos as I hung them up one-by-one. I added an extra one at the end for my dog and her first Christmas with me.
The last three years feel like a blur. Sometimes I feel like I’m recalling someone else’s memories.
I finished dinner, slid my leftovers into Goose’s bowl, and went outside to fill the water buckets for the animals. I walked over to scratch the chin of my neighbor’s dog and scooped up the box of printer’s ink on the way back.
The year had been riddled with so many houses, so many cities, so many versions of me. I’ve been so ruthless recently in ridding my life of any remnants of my past.
Just photos from the last 4 months, I told myself.
Somewhere between sweet nostalgia and rotten curiosity, I went poking around the cloud.
It hurt me like I knew it would.
The hardest time in my life. All the while surrounded by those who were only working to make it harder on me.
I beat each level. I overcame each hurdle.
I burned the bridges. I cut the ties.
I moved away. I started over.
I brought my babies home.
I did it. I’ve done it.
It’s still me, myself, and I.
Wild Little Hare 