Told rightly, my story and yours collide. They run the rails of our lives and meet at the wheelhouse of our best intentions, our worst fears, the ways we lose love and find it. We experience the world at our feet, by rising to meet each new day as a guest or hiding under the covers with a shameless fuck you.
Told rightly, my story is as true as yours and lands on themes that braid in and out of what my choices have created — the life I live today — fashioned by the nature and nurture of my youth to the calendar of years and the mapped itinerary of destinations, some reached, some abandoned, some still pursued. But story rarely lives in the destinations, does it?
And with that I begin, the curious journey told through the eyes of a girl named Liv who was born almost a decade ago in my imagination. She is a version of me that has a respect for the grandmothers of her grandmothers. She is a version of me that holds her own, thinks before she acts, knows how to listen and still finds herself trapped and manipulated by the workings of her insecure mind.
Liv’s story starts and ends in a cemetery. She keeps landing at dead ends. She’s learned through experience that things are never as they seem. What is she to do with that golden nugget? Could it be her super power? She will learn from the dead. She will learn to hold heartbreak and trust doubt. And then she will decide how to be in the world where the antidote nearby is herself.
Liv has found me at the wheelhouse on this cool September day. She reaches for my hand and tugs toward the trees. There is no trail.