“
Then she remembered robin’s nests and rainbows and redbud trees and
long drives
big skies
soft, worn blankets
black-eyed Susans
hammock naps
treehouses
red-eared sliders
acorn wreaths
fairy rings
birthday crowns
cupcake dinners
honeysuckle
lake water
fried catfish
summer storms
moments of shared intuition
the autumn tree line at dusk
being enveloped by the warm C of a loving body
being the enveloper
being in the presence of Someone who believes you have something worthwhile to say
being the one to whom important things are said
and bird wrists
and twig fingers
and strawberry moons
and finally: the symphony of hearts,
the internal music that plays when one decides to renew their partnership with life.
Yet the symphony had been playing faintly all along, a barely discernible underscore amid the noise of her going, going, long-term goaling, going, aiming, going, sweating, going, trying, going, failing, going, striving, doing, working, going, going, hiding, going, going, moving, going, going, excelling, perfecting, succeeding, winning, compartmentalizing, going, going, going, going, going. But now the call toward life was loud, swelling and triumphant—
like a brass section with one hundred instruments,
a musical theater ballad from a woman born to sing it,
or a rock band full of young unknown geniuses.
Suddenly, with such insatiable yearning, Wren wanted to fill her lungs. She did not choose to be born, but she chose, in this moment, to live.
”
”