We heard their scorn drift on the airwaves but too late to reach us up here. Where we climbed above them to the mountaintop gripping down with each step fighting the fear.

I will fight for you whispered worriedly into the winds that carried us away from each other and back again.

You are mine to hold when they all say no and can’t understand the way love will transcend every doubt, every falter, every barrier we will face.

So let us reach the highest mountains above the clouds and find our place, together. We were meant to be together.

“How does it end?”

“How does what end?”

“The story. My story. Or maybe your story. I’m not sure who it belongs to, anymore.”

“I think you’ll have to give me that answer.”

“Well… does it have to end?”

“Everybody’s story has an ending.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Of that, I am absolutely certain.”

I carried pieces of me, ships in a bottle, shattered when let go.

Buried in duty to helm this horrid day, home the only true course.

Then sailing onward the prevailing wind blew west, in time deep as oceans.

Sun stamped its tempo in blue above and below, days and days and days.

Breathing in years on, remember bottle shattered, but this ship, rebuilt.

I felt it for the first time, in a long time, when we were standing on the riverbank between here and there.

Our journey was long, but you knew that. If you didn’t see the contents of my soul before that moment, perhaps you saw the potential in the hope that I could never shake, or you understood that life had been heavy for longer than usual, or maybe you simply believed better than I ever could.

We had been lost for an agonizing length of days (months? years?) on different roads before we had known each other. I suppose it only made sense that we would stumble into one another at some point in this life that is somehow both too short and too long.

I had existed in the terrifying unknown with such severity and depth, I didn’t notice I had begun to lose all sense of other realities. I felt lost and alone for so long, any other state of being ceased to coincide with the truth I now faced every day. Intense flashes of what used to be tended to sear my temples in dreams, only to be lost in waking. I suppose that is why I had clung to hope; I understood what could be. I had lived it long ago.

One day, I realized I was a paper birch tree. It’s easy to see the importance of trees, as they tower proudly and protect those who seek shelter in and under their branches, though I always felt lost among the taller, more impressive beasts of the forest. Still, I was able to anchor myself with strong roots, allow time to pass over me in seasons and colours, and bend my delicate branches without breaking. Yes, I must be a birch tree; dwarfed by the mighty ashes, and maples, oaks, and redwoods, but still here, a quiet and steady, guardian of the forest. So I held fast on the brightest days and in the darkest nights on the long journey. I met others along the way, some living freely, others living more like me, drifting along as the world pulled them as it may. They all came and went just the way they were meant to.

I met you somewhere in between. You were one of the free ones, I could tell from afar. I wonder, did you know then, that you are sunshine? I have always known that to be true. You are warmth to many and radiate from the inside out. I couldn’t tell your journey had been just as long as mine. Maybe you took great pains to hide the unwanted memories that crept into your psyche at pivotal moments, maybe you have always been and will always be sunshine. I don’t know. No one knows except you.

Our paths collided and so we walked together for a time. A long time. Neither of us intended to stay in the other’s life, it just…happened. With the usual ebbs and flows of daily existence, you always seemed to be there, and so did I. Sometimes on purpose. Often by accident.

The adventures that ensued on lighter days were always my favourite. They were full of possibility and always gave me more reason to hope. Over time, we were able to take on challenges together and walk places neither of us had ventured before. When the rocky roads and downhill slopes met the exciting heights and breathtaking views in equal measure, I came to a conclusion. Paper birch trees need sunshine to grow. Sunshine needs something to shine upon. We were better together. We are better together.

One day, on a simple excursion to stretch our legs, we stopped by the edge of a slow moving river. The trees rooted strong and the sun shone brightly. As we watched the water trickle over the rocks on its predetermined path, I knew. For the first time, in a long time, I was happy.

On this night we made our way across the endless terrain. At least, it seemed endless. I’ve often pondered the ease with which humans exaggerate. It’s a silly tactic; an attempt to urge others to understand. Of course this path would end. All paths do. I just worried for Hero, who had borne me on her back for many miles without complaint. She was trusty. But, yesterday she moved so slowly, I could not allow her to walk in the sun. So we made our way at night. Alongside us walked Pram, a pony I had won some days ago in a pub, long forgotten once we entered the wilderness. It was just us three on this night. Hero and Pram trundled forward with little water or food. I didn’t eat much either. Whether it was solidarity with my horses that kept me from reaching for the rations or worry for the possibility of starvation I’m not sure. The fullness of the saddlebags helped me to worry less. So I didn’t touch the food. We often sensed sunrise before we saw it. The nocturnal animals would still and the scarce birds would begin to sing. We would watch each sunrise before settling in for rest and respite from the blazing desert sun, then carry on with the coolness of evening. But, on this night, with hallucinations creeping into the corners of vision in response to our sleep deprivation and empty bellies, we saw something new. Symbols appeared on the rock formations before us. The lines swirled into half-formed pictures, then disappeared, only to form the next symbol, the next part of the story. I blinked and shook my head. When the symbols did not clear, I pulled on Hero’s reins, forcing her and Pram to stop and stare with me. Before assuring myself I’d lost my mind, I remembered the conwoman in the old pub. She had told me my path would end when I reached the rock writing. I slid down from Hero’s back, moving slowly until I came level with her face.

“We’re here,” I whispered.

Can you be your own abuser and spit vile words at yourself? Can you do the most harm inside and chip away at your health?

Can you hurt where no one sees because the marks aren’t like bruises? Can you cause permanent damage, littered with excuses?

Can you bite the toxic apple with your lips firmly closed? Can you sip on drops of poison so that no one else knows?

Can your brain be a battlefield for rivals, logic and pain? Can you fight a war within yourself, with seemingly nothing to gain?

Can you waste away on reason and everything you think, Can you bleed yourself inside out, when nary a neighbour blinked?

Memory breathes, claiming a life of its own it breathes reminding me of how little I control it breathes, pulling the past forward in the most pertinent way, to recollect all I did and didn’t say.

Olfaction the oxygen memory inhales to walk down the lane of reminiscent tales, Where I stayed in reality in pleasure and in pain, now breathing little reminders of progress in my brain.

Memory breathes, to pepper my ordinary life, with moments of meaning between all the strife. Memory breathes, in the middle of a regular day. It needs to breathe, it has no other way.

I put the flowers in the vase yesterday, They were lilies, not that you’d notice anyway. But I thought it important to add life to the room and let the smell permeate from a bouquet in full bloom.

The moments of my life reverberate like echoes in a deep canyon. I can still hear them bouncing off the insides of my teeth long after my mouth has shut. A single instance is never just that. It lives on in memory, being pulled apart by dream excavators and examined by judgement specialists.

How does everyone move on so quickly? I'm still here, soaking in the simple stillness of joy because I know when I move, the clock will too. I'm still here, reeling in anguish because tomorrow might not be better but everyone is ready to leave today behind.

I'm just trying to exist in this one instance. Right now.

The clock was louder than he wished. In the otherwise eerie quiet of the room, the ticking pulsed against his eardrums, quaking what little was visible under his droopy eyelids. The faded upholstery of the armchair opposite sickened him. The pea green, while a poor choice in any household, was so similar in colour to the vomit on the pavement three miles away that his stomach turned again.

Tick. Make it stop. Each second a moment further away from the decision digging its talons into his temples. Do I go back and look for her? Tock. Plead the fifth. I didn't see it happen so I can't possibly know what transpired.

She was a stranger only last month. The girl spotted him first, on a blustery day when patrons hide inside coffee shops and discreetly wipe their noses on scarves in the absence of a tissue. He was looking out the window, a copy of Great Expectations flattened along the spine underneath his veiny hand. Occasional glances at the novel read and reread was enough to create the guise of a reader. While he was that, he more often took the stance of observer. Today was no exception.

The window on 4th, centred in the downtown storefronts, was mottled with enough grime to supply his preferred level of anonymity as he gazed out at the quirks of this most unfortunate species, between sips of particularly potent latte. The wind stole the hat from a tall and proud man. Too proud to chase his tweed cap down the street. His angry ears burned brightly as he turtled into his collar. A mother, equipped with stroller and 3-year-old, drag-pushed her spawn along the sidewalk, her son howling a few decibels louder than the gale as they passed by the window. A business woman, waiting at the corner to cross the street, tightened her trench coat belt, attempting to save her pristine clothes which sharply contrasted her tornado-flipped hair.

"Is it worth the read?"

He started at the melodic voice. He had not heard the woman approach. She perched delicately on the stool to his right and fixed her gaze on the book beneath his hand. He stared back at her, not realizing she had asked a question.

"Is it a good book or is the redhead outside more interesting?"

"I'm sorry?" he replied.

"Well, you've hardly flipped any pages. I know a people-watcher when I see one." As his face turned pink with embarrassment she said, "Don't worry, I do it too. Though, a better location would be the beach. Sunglasses help." She smirked.

He was at a loss for words.

"That's okay. You can tell me whatever you want at dinner." She slid a business card across the coffee-stained counter. "Call me." With a charming smile, she flounced into the grey day, her chocolate hair flying in long waves behind her.

Her brazen approach left him dumbstruck, staring at the exit to the coffee shop where she lingered only in his imagination. He picked up the business card. Mary Walters, it read. Real estate. She sells herself well, he thought. He smiled at the notion of being seen sitting across from her in a dimly lit restaurant, staring directly at him the way she just had, her piercing blue eyes boring a hole in his carefully constructed defences. He would call her. Maybe.

Tick. Eyes open. How much time had passed? He felt each beat of the oaken clock like a lead weight pressing deeply into his diaphragm. His breath came short. The pendulum continued to swing. Tock. Stay awake. They could be here any second. But how could they know?