Crossings
A ritual in six steps
I. The Letter
I knelt beside the younger me—
mud-kneed, wonder-eyed—
and said,
You did not fail by surviving.
With ink soft as forgiveness,
I wrote:
“I carried you here.
And still, I do.”
II. The Dialogue
I found my fragments arguing—
mask and marrow, fire and husk—
so I let them speak.
One said: I yielded,
the other: I stayed,
and together,
they wrote a name I recognized.
III. The Sigil
By candlelight, I curved a shape—
part wing, part wound, part word.
Not to cast a spell,
but to remember:
I am allowed
to believe
in what remade me.
IV. The Blessing
At the mirror’s edge, I whispered
to the name they gave me,
and the one I chose:
May you outgrow shame without shedding gentleness.
May you speak without shrinking.
May you love without folding first.
V. The Boundary Walk
I stepped to the line—
threshold, doorway, shore—
and paused,
barefoot, present.
The air on both sides
tasted of salt and maybe.
Halfway through,
I said aloud:
Here I am.
And the wind replied,
Welcome.
VI. The Altar
I gathered the evidence—
a scar,
a poem never shared,
a feather kept for no reason.
I built no temple.
But I bowed my head
as if I had.
And left the matchbox open,
just in case.
.