Sacred Riverbank

September 2025.

 

 

Sacred Riverbank, the English translation of Ribeira Sacra is a region in Galicia, Spain, defined by dramatic and deep river canyons.

The region is earning international attention and a stellar reputation after its magnificent viticulture, the practice of growing and cultivating grapes.  Its wines are highly rated, thanks to courageous viticulturists and a discerning generation of winemakers focusing on native grapes in such unique terroirs.

As most Galician contrasts, Sacred Riverbank’s vertiginous terraces with inclinations exceeding 60 degrees are too rugged for machinery, vineyards are planted via intense manual labor in a process known as “Heroic Viticulture.”

Grapes are harvested and carried out of the gorges on the workers’ backs in days of unbearable heat. Courageous workers defying age and machinery, magnificent vintages harvested out of risky vineyards, Galician grit honored by refined sommeliers worldwide.

Noblesse Oblige.

As an ancestral Galician, the area’s terrain, history, and definitely the heroic viticulture of the midlife harvesters who make it happen, leads me to write an analogy that seems fitting for an emotionally risky endeavor.

Dating in Midlife.

Sacred Riverbank.

Far from vain, it requires reflection.

Getting out there instead of remaining in here after 50 takes the same mindset it took in your 20s, meaning honesty, courage, and hopefully, intention.  The only difference is that by now we should know much better, and as all things in life, intentions vary as Galician grapes are harvested – from thick skinned to light and floral, even age-worthy, meaning more complex and concentrated than entry-level counterparts.

Ladies and gentlemen, there’s hope for Premier Cru.

Sacred Riverbank.

If you follow, the area earned its poetic name from the numerous monasteries that were built there from the 5th century onwards.  All of us single could use a seance of introspection in these sacred places prior to meeting someone new.

Explanted from delusion, I have earned the wisdom to know that one can – and should- be fulfilled on our own, whether one has been loved, or has loved in our past or not. After all, if one doesn’t love and accept oneself with all our flaws and has healed the scars of life, how can one recognize, honor and love our other?

Some seek replacement, divertimento, validation, sex, satisfaction or distraction. Others add depth, connection, meaning or a personal combination.

It’s all valid but it seems best to assess your terrain in the land of extremely steep terraces.

Sacred Riverbank.

Mutual attraction can lead to a heroic conversation revealing the complexity of your vineyard so that your pairing can assess the value of your vintage.

The consistency of his or her actions should show you the slopes of the terroir and its potential.

In wine, there’s truth.

Sacred Riverbank.

Not surprising,  the region’s production is relatively small, with annual harvests and volumes that often struggle with a surplus. Instead of large volumes, the region focuses on unique wines highlighting its unique viticulture.

After all, if one has lived this far, midlife dating can be a rewarding viticulture followed by an exquisite vintage.

Ask Mencía, the medium to full-bodied star grape from the area whose name means “she who conquers” or “victorious.”

Ripe red with intense colors and fruit flavors like cherry, blackberry, and plum, she is often accompanied by mineral notes, herbal hints, and a seductive peppery spice.

A remarkable Galician ambassador, she is one lady of firm, fine tannins. Versatile yet always reliable.

Undoubtedly, steep terroir contributed to her complexity and depth.

Sounds Familiar?  Which variety are you?  If you don’t know and wonder, it’s about time. Tend to your vineyard.

Wine tasting can be a start, enticing yet short lived, after time, some only recall a tad or a ton of confusion.

A more intentional and steadier journey may lead you to a PDR (private dining room) where a single bottle of Faraona 2018, the Grand Cru of Sacred Riverbank awaits.

Known for its elegance, complexity, and purity, Faraona is an unforgettable vineyard, one of the most sought-after bottles in all of Spain.

Her prestige stems from a rare, low-yielding, single vineyard on a steep slope.

Once decanted, she is known to rise from a long slumber, allowing its aromas and flavors to express her character and celebrate life exceptionally.

Sacred Riverbank.

 

 

 

 

vantage point

August 2025.

 

 

Being alive gives you the option to develop or cultivate a Vantage Point.

Becoming a photographer, a storyteller, an artist, gives you no option. It’s an order.

Metaphorically speaking, my Vantage Point time travels lawlessly particularly when seeing the past in pictures. And when such pictures show the naïveté of youth, loved ones now departed, or former homes in the cities that drove my personal growth, melancholy sets in and an evocative symphony follows.

Blame or bless my Celtic ancestry for the wistful side of my character, it stands tall and unapologetic like an Irish headstone.

Judge me for the times I blinded my Vantage Point with the blind spots of a fortifying past.

Redeem me for the bold move it took to break the chains that bring change.

Nashville, Tennessee, Y’all.  

The Athens of the South.

Read on. It gets twang.

It took Music Capital to lift the tone arm of my broken record and stop the longing with a panoramic view clasp.

I can explain.

After the passing of my father in Spain, I decided to leave Miami and my life as I knew it, and moved to Nashville where my sister and extended family live, to honor the legacy of togetherness my immigrant parents nurtured in my sister and me.

Suffice to say that of all the world cities I’ve lived and worked which have been plenty, my love for 305 and its ocean was so genuine I stayed there the longest, even if my feelings for the city went unrequited in varying degrees of rollercoaster angst trouncing knockouts.

The Celt in me persevered. I owe Miami my version of Roosevelt’s Man in the Arena.

Fast forward to now. Perspective follows.

Interior styling my new home studio in Nashville, I ran into an old picture of my former Miami balcony atop a 34th floor in a posh Brickell skyscraper.   The image showcased a fierce storm fast approaching, the kind of sky I love to photograph – a drapery of ethereal mist and dense indigo-gray clouds powerfully shadowing every skyscraper spire in sight.

Captured by an illusory memory, I sat in my kitchen bar, frozen in the past, bringing back all the years that balcony witnessed, myself unearthing the heavy burden of gone.

Unannounced, Madame Melancholy settled in, her violinists collectively fine tuning to an orchestra I know well. Yet this time the orchestra failed to ensemble, a symphony of silence reigned over my head as it turned sideways.

Nashville, Stompin’ Grounds.

My eyes detached from the 4 x 6 balcony picture to face a reality check that gives the term a Presidential Pardon. I opened up to a real-time panoramic view courtesy of the unobstructed 10-foot-tall windows of my living room.

Size matters.

Vantage Point.

My eyes traveled with upstroke wings atop my grand view of Green Hills – the residential, placid, and serene neighborhood located south of downtown Nashville.

It’s home, Sweetheart.

Instead of wishful, I felt grand. Instead of past, I feel present. Instead of afraid, I felt freed.

Channeling my beloved butterflies thru my windows, I felt my life flying high over an ocean of welcoming oaks, maples, and tulip poplars, the kaleidoscope of greens, the dignity of midwestern trees.

Every sunset, this view is crowned by the Great Smoky Mountains in a celestial horizon nested by the ancient Appalachian Plains – serene, undulating, inviting, reserved. I get lost in awe as they speak to my like art does.  I see it as an exquisite Japanese Sansui, an art form that reflects a deep reverence for nature, aiming to evoke calm and contemplation.

And as in every master artwork, no two are ever the same.

Moving was my catalyst to moving on.

People don’t change, but we can correct a worn-out course and refuse settling. I did.

So much, that a quote I treasure comes to mind from my go-to opinion columnist from The Times, Maureen Dowd: “The minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less that you settled for.”

Bless the Celts for keeping me unsettled enough to make my move.

I feared leaving the ocean, now the birds sing there are many yet to swim.

I feared leaving my beloved art gallery, now my purpose glows with my mentors, colleagues, and collectors.

I feared leaving the familiar, now my family is here.

Come to the Edge seems fitting, a poem about courage symbolized by birds by Guillaume Apollinaire. I relied on it to gather strength prior to my transatlantic moves in my early 20s.

“Come to the edge,” he said.
“We can’t, we’re afraid!” they responded.
“Come to the edge,” he said.
“We can’t. We will fall” they responded.
“Come to the edge,” he said.
And so they came. And he pushed them.
And they flew.

As I read my words, it turns out I never left. Like the Apollinaire birds, I flew.

Just like Dad.

And as I write on my solid oak wood desk right across the glorious views ahead of me, my eyelashes flutter to a picture of Dad, taken by me, of all places in Miami and from my old balcony.

It’s a closeup where you can tell he is looking at the horizon.

Vantage Point.

His was always stellar – His vision for his daughters manifesting here and now.

I can feel him nodding in joy whispering a life quote meant for us:

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.”  Edward Abbey

Nashville, Bless your Heart.

the good cry

July 2025.
I wear my heart on my sleeve.

Teary eyes come up easily out of memories, remembrance, reverence or uncontrolled laughter. Tears for a good cry hardly do.

Until Dad passed.

My beloved father died on Christmas Eve 2024, seven months ago to this day, in his ancestral Galicia, Spain.

Mom, my sister and me were fortunate to be by his hospital bedside during his final hours.

His eyes closed, his pulse calmed, his coughing silenced, his aura angelic, his life in mine.

This was the day I met the good cry.

I am not writing about the literal definition of the term – the release of pent-up emotions leading to a sense of relief and improved mood.

This is about the loss of an extraordinary father.

Shy in stream, graceful in flow, rich in gratitude, dense in memories, these are the tears I write about.

As they welled up, my rational voice told me what I knew –   There’s nothing I could have done to have avoided his suffering and his departure from our life, or that I will never be able to hug him again.

My memory reminded that he will always live in me.

And as such, Christmas 2024 was my life changer.  It baptized me with a sacred rain of tears honoring my father, the ultimate family man.

Procreating children makes a man a biological father. Having the standards to be there for your spouse and children and protect them for a lifetime does.

His manual for family would be titled Legacy.  I am lucky to treasure it.

Far from perfect as no human is, my father was the epitome of vision and determination in post-war Spain. He was the immigrant without a father figure who faced the high seas of poverty with the dignity of self-worth and determination.

He was also a good writer, and as such, a man of his word.  Add an exemplary provider, a hardworking man, a generous spirit, a gifted communicator, a financially responsible mentor, an anchor of support. All of it with the innate intellect, curiosity, wit, elegance, and savoir-faire money can’t buy.

At his deathbed feeling how devastated he would had been to say goodbye to his family, I whispered that he would always live in us, particularly at the Caribbean, our Shangri-La. My tears helped me describe we will always swim together through the waves he loved, rising and breaking into the sunshine he adored.

My voice projects all the way  to the woman who inspired him to be the very best version of himself.

Mom, at 91,  has survived this traumatic loss of spouse with the dignity of spirit reserved for those who lead by example.

She doesn’t tell my sister or me how much she cries when we call her in Spain every morning, but suffice to say we know.

My definition of my tears are my answer when she mentions she cries only a little, as to avoid my suffering.

Knowing how much she misses him is always validated with the acceptance we share – He no longer suffers and instead has joined the everlasting loving consciousness we know so little about.

I also remind her of the phrase Dad always told me – “Make sure you can recognize yourself in the mirror every morning.” And then, adamantly, I reassure her that every effort she is doing to keep herself together in this new phase of life honors the love they had for each other.

She smiles and I can feel dad teary eyed, like yours truly.

He would be proud of my sentiment – My tears are life’s megaphone for my father’s love for me.

It’s so genuine it humbles you. Just like every Christmas used to.

Last Christmas humbled my family  indescribably differently.

On a sacred and symbolic night that marks the evening before Christmas Day, our present was invaluable.

We were given the privilege of honoring my Dad’s departure as his family, together by his side. His departure became testimony of togetherness.

Undoubtedly, this would have been his choice as he embraced the creator who blessed our lives with his.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patina

June 2025.

 

 

Browsing through Interior Design references, my eye stood still at a word.

It had always caught my attention, but this time it spoke to me because of its description.

Patina -the worn quality that reveals an object untold story.

This is why I write, driven by the certitude that although the way we feel differs from person to person, what we do with it comes close. When we write, we help, when we read or listen, we heal. This is a big part of my Patina.

And as I will soon approach a birthday milestone, my Patina is revealing. Undoubtedly, time has been my great revealer, awareness my compass.

In Interior Design, Patina brings friction but it also creates defining contrast, dimension, uniqueness, worth.

In life, experience has been the alchemy of my Patina. Its friction has sprung forth grip, wisdom, reverence, respect.

And a love of life and self that challenges the ego and transcends the mundane.

People, situations, hard earned gains or sudden losses that I thought made or broke me, were my relentless carving catalysts. Agents that mirrored my fears and taught me to honor my strength and sensibility.

Whatever the result to my endless life searches –  I jumped gracefully on most of them only to sink or pretend to swim floating along temporarily – God put a rainbow in my clouds. And this is what I focus on now, a different search, a discovery, still fast forward but intentionally inward.

Call it mileage. Driver’s seat. Master of my road.

The inner voice is the softest of whispers, until it roars so loud that it withstand the test of time.

Every step that tumbled me, loss that shamed me, feedback that crushed me, heartbreak that tore me, condition that frightened me, wait that sentenced me and the many painful pebbles that followed, chiseled my crystalized marble and revealed my Patina of golden-bronze artisanal hues and ethereal morning light.

Exquisite Vintage.

Good interior designers master the balance between Patina and Polish. So should we.

And we all know that seasons – and time – bring different forms of life into the world around us. So does burnishing.

Nourish the intellect, honor class, sparkle. Patina loves a posh polish.

Every encounter that is real, music that uplifts, textures that thread, flavors that enrich, fragrances that linger, art that transcends, words that heal, new hellos, last goodbyes, humble souls, generous mentors, love surprises, lifetime friends, forever family members, the legacy of my beloved parents.

These are the agents of my polish, amplified by the many exponential ways in which I want to give back the best of me to all of it.

Coincidentally, Patina is also a novel by Jason Reynolds. A story that delves into the life of Patina, a talented young runner.  As she navigates the ups and downs of her life, Patina learns the meaning of perseverance, friendship, and never giving up.

Patina never gives up.

It’s the worn quality that reveals your untold story – brave, unapologetic, everlasting, yours.

 

wind in our favor

May 2025.

 

 

Once upon a time
love chose the exceptional
to honor its day by the sea

Golden sunsets, Iberian skies
Spain, the North Star

A maiden voyage carved in sand
became seabound hoisting its sails high

Heeling became bliss, watching its mainsail fill, white caps of joy, starry nights of awe

Life’s rainstorms waved, windward, leeward, swelling currents turning mad

Tramontana winds steamed forward – Balearic freedom, Galician grit

I was the lucky one to be on board
trusted dearly as my Captains’ figurehead

God’s guidance sailed our way

Aye Aye my Captains
may the seas lie smooth before you
may a gentle breeze forever fill your sails

Fair winds and following seas
we have the wind in our favor

Ursula

April 2025.

 

 

I met Ursula the day of her memorial service.

The one with the imaginary name she kept for herself, the one treasured by her family knowing they would never see her again.

Wife, mother, grandmother, great grandmother.

Artist, collector, patron, poet, life enthusiast, fierce female, eye extraordinaire.

You add all of it and you have a Master Gardener.

Ask her flowers, I am now one of them.

Greeting the woman while alive was knowing you were about to learn something unforgettable. Writing about the woman after her passing is knowing your connection with her is real.

A groundbreaking photographer, her eyes were keen lenses that focused on anyone or anything of genuine substance. Her pupils were lasers for the exceptional.

Every gesture counted.

A discerning art collector with a gift to curate personal spaces along with her brilliant self-made husband, Jimmy Mayer, she made sure that first and foremost, the art lived with them and not the other way around.

Every narrative counted.

The ultimate hostess, she made her space feel yours the moment she warmly welcomed you, and as in the most acclaimed of premieres about to start, her rich velvety drape fell softly next to you, cloaking you with her charm, disarming your defenses to remind you of your strengths, leading you to applaud hers.

Every person counted.

A family woman, her kindred are a testament of the callings of her heart, the curiosity of her mind, and the wilderness of her spirit. All faithful to the meaning of her birth name – Becky, “to tie firmly.”

An extended family never looked so genuine.  Alchemy of diamonds.

Every kinship counted.

Including the relationships forged and polished to perfection by the test of time.

Count me among the lucky ones to know the love of a family tree that never stops giving.

The speech of a stepson on her memorial service confirmed how a woman can earn the reverence reserved for mothers. While drawing distance from his father during a temporary rift, she reminded him that disagreements dissolve, but a relationship with a father should never.

Pastel colors were not her thing, grace definitely made up for it.

Her passion for speed on motorcycles gives meaning to the saying “two wheels move the soul.” She proved it every time she joined a wild group of Harley riders – fast, fierce, determined, joyful –  as if celebrating the ride of her lifetime.

Home was the world, particularly if it was as colorful as the Caribbean, and as tasteful as the morning coffee that only took Malibu Rum.

An admirer of Palladian architecture, she appreciated the timeless quality of dimensions, scale, and proportions.  Her thinking was a fitting analogy.

Reading one of her poetry books prior to her passing, Reflections on the Tao Te Ching, her guidance led me to a verse I treasure.

“Be as balanced as blinded justice, as profound as the endless deep, as magnanimous as the simple truth, as honest as a reflecting mirror, as orderly as a perfect spiral, as flowing as a bountiful river. Go forth on the Journey.”

Ursula didn’t wait, she would cheer.

I am in for the Journey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love Seals

March 2025.

 

 

We’ve all experienced varying degrees of the phrase Time Heals while recovering from surgery, grieving the loss of relationships or the passing of loved ones. In my experience, if time is the wise agent in the healing process, love is the medicine that seals our wounds thereafter.

How can it not?

Go back to the last time you were sick or recently operated, alone or in company. Hopefully, time and medication made you feel better as the days passed by. Now think of how you felt when you heard from those who cared for you. The company they dedicated to you changing their life just to be next to you; the daily texts and calls to check on you; the get well cards in the mail; the acts of generosity; the consideration of your work mentors; the Instagram messages to a story that suggested recovery; the words of encouragement to remind you who you are.

This is even more evident if you are an independent woman head of your own household.  In medical recoveries, after all is said and done, and as you pass your worst days of pain and fear, your space now frames the acts of caring that keep you floating in grace, lifted by the presence of those who took time to let you know you are loved.

Count me among the blessed ones who experienced the healing effects of this love medicine.

Now go back to the first or last time your heart broke to pieces.  The formula applies.

If you are a committed to doing the work  – self growth via emotional mastery – no matter how trying or how painful the road or the experience was, your recovery can lead you to an unexpected form of love.

The kind that will transform you, leading you to compassion, forgiveness, appreciation, and more love for all they did, including what they could not do any better.

The kind that will find you wiser, lighter, happier.

I call it a filter of intentions, and not every person or love interest will pass it or come close.

But you know who met your heart, with all their failings, adding yours.

And as in medical interventions, when you look back at the experience, you should not look back at what healed you physically or made you evolve emotionally with disdain or regret.  Try a wall mirror, face whatever needs to be faced, and get ready to welcome more love. Self love.

My favorite quote from Mother Theresa comes close to this reflection  – “I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”

It’s this kind love that makes us grow into someone who honors everyone involved in the most important decisions in our lives.

And the day your loved ones cross the bridge, it’s this kind of love that will seal their bridge to you forever.

This awakening is so prevalent, that the popular serie And Just Like That lands its on a podium for all us to honor: “My sadness never shrank but I grew, and grew until I was so large, the grief just felt smaller.  You don’t move on because you’re ready to. You move on because you’ve outgrown who you used to be.”

If who you used to be is one who lives in regret ignoring unhealed or unforgiving wounds of all kinds, take a look within.

And let love in.

 

 

 

2020 is Hindsight

Everything seems different.

Apocalyptic, catastrophic, alarmingly surreal.

These are the days of the unprecedented. Unrivaled as an infectious collective memory, boundless as a global war zone, the kind that takes us to ground zero.

Days of sorrow, distance, dizzying haze, solitary confinement.  Mental analysis paralysis.

This is the curse of The Corona Virus, the pandemic calamity we are told is sweeping lives by the thousands, dragging the world’s economy by trillions, tearing all plans, all while flaunting a crown as if wanting us to bow and curtsy. 

Isolation seems our only armor, eyes wide open, doors closed shut, the only contact is thyself. 

Add resistance to fear. There’s no way out, dare to dive in, see what you see, but stay solo.

Every day seems like the next – worrying loops of watching and waiting. Let me dream that curve go flat.

Will this fear go away? Will we see the light of day? Remember last month? Don’t you miss us? Do you need to hug me or pray together, particularly if you never have?  I do.

I also want to be better before we meet again. I want to be a better me so that we can be a better we.
I want to honor the dead with my legacy for life. I want us to turn the ugly shadow of disease into a sea of  better times to come.  

There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow men, Hemingway wrote.  

Ask anyone who loved ones this year, either from Covid or its related and growingly strange complications which seem to be all. 

Ask every  exhausted healthcare worker if they know the nationality or the political affiliations of humanity when there are minutes left to save lives.  They don’t. They rise above.

This is the grandiosity of the human spirit – God-given, unbiased, unprejudiced, universal, never fragile but faithful till the end.

Can we meet there?

Don’t think twice. 2020 is hindsight.

Friendly Reminder

Messages come to us in many ways. This one came through the coffee window of my Latin Cafe.

In April 2019, I started a corporate opportunity that everyone thought had potential, even if it was below my professional experience and I was overqualified.  Surprisingly, it ended abruptly right in the most questioning of circumstances.

The day after this demoralizing experience, and regardless of how broken I felt, I headed to my holy grail of morning glory, the Latin Cafe in my neighborhood where I order my daily dose of Cuban coffee.

I placed my order as usual, and the woman manning the window asked me how was work. My reply was as brief: “Over.”

She told me to sit in one of the tables across the window, and that she would be happy to serve me.  I insisted that there was no need for her to to go out of her way, but she was resolute.

Minutes later, she approached my table, placed my cup of caffeine octane on its center, and told me to be positive, not elaborating much in case I did not want to engage. I thanked her and thought that would be the end of it. Not a chance. I was out of work, but my new friend had just found one – Me.

“I don’t know if you know about me,” she said. Time stood still as she focused her eyes on mine.

“See those buildings behind you” she said, pointing to the high-rise Brickell skyscrapers in construction right behind my back.  “I used to work there,” she said. “I managed construction projects, I had a secretary, and a big stack of papers on my desk. I worked so hard managing offices but things also ended for me.”  Nobody cared about me there, she continued, until one day I said enough of this.

My eyes were watery. My heart in my throat. Her story resonated.

Does it ring a bell? A fire alarm?

Read on, don’t run for cover.

“You see me doing coffee here?” she pressed on.  “I don’t care what people think of me because I come here every morning happy.  I like working with my people, and my customers are very generous with me. I work half-day, then I go swimming, and at home I do my own thing!  It may be a bit less money, but I am free.”

In my case, years of successful corporate experience with outstanding reviews seemed like an illusory past after my dismissal. I recall the moment as an emotional tsunami at the core of my “not good enough” fault zone. This fear is among the most dreaded and irrational by the majority of the population, “The Impostor Syndrome” – to be found out, to be good at nothing, the labeling of one’s strengths as non-existent.  I felt my body sank, drowning into the depths of insanity, all of it questioning if I had gone mad, if I had made my years of professional seniority, sacrifice, and glory all up.

I did not. My corporate history and my stellar recommendations available on Linkedin speak for me. My formative years with brilliant mentors reached its summit bringing me to a hostile arena — a much needed ego crush, a life-kicking fracture, yet a jump-start to my intentions which had been on life support in a financial toxic culture, trapped in a cubicle, accepting the unacceptable, smelling the backstab.

Little did I know that the dismissal that felt shocking, embarrassing, humiliating, and shameful, came to land me at my purpose.

“Look at you Mami!,” my waitress smiled as if questioning my wistful look. “You are a beautiful elegant woman, do something creative — go for art — you are probably very good at it, write a book girl!”

All of it prophetic, particularly knowing that what I love to do is precisely what she mentioned – what you see in this website, in the words of those who know me and motivate me – an eye that beautifies. I am a visual poet, a story teller. I am an artist.

I am no longer the woman settling for the cubicle.

And just like that, I remembered a favorite teaching from Gary Zukav’s The Seat of the Soul :
“When the personality comes fully to serve the energy of its soul, that is authentic empowerment.”

Shouldn’t we all? Isn’t this one of life’s best friendly reminders?

Perhaps

Perhaps is a favorite word. Its meaning, phonetics, and the wisdom behind those who prefer it for the same reasons that I do. For all one knows – it could be, it may be, it may surprise you.

Perhaps surprised me this week, proving itself timely, patient, wise, forever healing.

And perhaps had it, that a loved one out of desperation to win an argument during a dinner discussion by the beach, mentioned a name that does not belong near the ocean. The name of a sick mind that I am proud to have survived.

I knew it had to do with perhaps.

Grabbing the unnamed memory by its horns, I seized the moment and paved the way for my next morning, the day to have my conversation, the minute to find the truth behind a lifelong doubt.

My morning showed up. Salty breeze on my back, sun on my shoulders, sandy moss under my feet, ocean waves crashing in and out of me. I walked towards the question. Fear holding on to yesterday, my spirit honoring today.

The doubt dies today. I had to ask the question, I had to bear the answer.

I had to perhaps. And I did.

I asked and the doubt died washing me clean, safe, free.

The fear, the past, the scars, all healed by the sea.

An open sky now lives in me. And in us.

Perhaps threw me a winning dice.

The timing of closure.