Letting Go

    There's something about sitting alone in an empty stall to hide from the breeze. Sweat drips down my forehead and cheeks, replacing dried tears. I let the sweat gather. Why bother wiping away something that will just come back anyway?

    The sweet stench of day-old manure fills my nostrils. Mom sent me down here to clean it earlier, but the stench is all I have left.

    “No one else likes it,” she said.

    Surely someone else appreciates the scent of memories.

    I drag my hand across the hay, and pick it up to look at the dirt that has accumulated on my skin, then curl my hand into a fist. I wrap myself around every detail surrounding me, and pull it close to my chest like a girl with her favorite stuffed animal just as she is about to take flight for the first time in the four short years she has been alive.

    I think we aren't so different, that girl and me. We are both afraid of the uncontrollable, the unknown. But maybe I just need to let go. Maybe, just maybe if I let go, then I will fly.