Sometimes there’s a night that doesn’t happen often and sometimes you’re lucky to know it. The evening sky wipes clean from a quick summer storm, slowly darkens in sympathy. You realize it then, that no what-ifs, no could’ves or should’ves would have ever been enough. You’re not going to be somebody special nor write that one perfect book that makes others think, smile, wonder. You weren’t going to be somebody because there’s one or two elements missing and even if they could be learned or learned to be overcome, you likely would never have known soon enough what they were.
It’s a sadness and yet the dark breeze is refreshing as lightly as it blows through your hair, touches your face, taunts you to accept yourself just as you are and laughs as it passes you by.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology