My mother taught me how to

tie my shoes one day,

We were at the park,

the bench cold beneath us—

Winter made itself known, the leaves were brittle, dead.

She said to me, “You’ve fallen

one too many times,”

And as she laced the last shoe, whispered,

“No one will always be there to help you.”

So that was the last day she helped me up,

Dusted off my jeans.

For years, I remembered to tie my shoes,

Tight, firm—

So I wouldn’t trip,

So I wouldn’t fall.

Because no one could help me,

No one could save me.

Much later, sitting on that same bench,

Summer had bleached the sky to white,

And I had realized that I was terribly alone.

Watching the birds flutter like thoughts,

Bugs crawl with destination,

I stayed for hours,

watching flowers grow slow, beautifully.

My shoes had always stayed tied.

And I watched, and I watched.

What if I fell?

What if I did?

What if I didn’t need to be saved?

I untied my shoes that day,

Stood, then ran—

Ran endlessly, shoes untied.

And I didn’t fall.

But if I did,

I would just get back up,

Just get back up and run again.

Because what is life if you don’t?

If you don’t fall?

How will you learn that it’s okay—

To fall, to even stay down for a while,

To not need anyone to save you,

To be a person,

To exist,

Very slowly,

Very,

Very slowly,

But to exist.