The smile of a future recognition comes to his face.
He feels the beginnings of a different kind of life—
like a just-opened book, full of great emotion,
but whose ending has yet to be written.
He looks around his internal room—
hope and uncertainty lying there, each waiting
their turn to dress him up in their likeness.
He sees the bed of his past that he lies in,
feels the fetid, overused air around it.
Rising, he opens the shutters, takes in the loveliness
of the flowers outside his window.
As he opens it, currents pull at him—one backwards,
down gullies, unsteady as it careens around corners.
Another one pulling him up, allowing him to lift off
the floor, toes waving goodbye to earth, heart full
of intimations of burdens easing, long-standing restraints
starting to recede, leaving a new feeling—like freedom,
but just the hint, the possibility, the smell of freedom
in the air, the sweet taste of a coming newness.
The old view, the ‘what could have been’ one, its regrets,
starts to recede like a tide going out, taking tensions with it,
even ones long-held, slipping further away as some other self
starts to take shape—slowly, oh so slowly, holding onto
its life by sheer desire, sheer hope in these thin
threads emerging from a decades-long sleep,
as they begin to give birth to. . . just me,
just a simple human being,
but this particular one—
this new, old self,
this feeling of