To the Woman I Used to Be (On a Rainy Afternoon)
It is raining today — not the kind that brings thunder, but the quiet kind, the kind that turns windows into watercolor and keeps the kettle working overtime. The house is still, save for the ticking of the clock and the gentle clink of my teaspoon, and it’s in moments like this that I find myself thinking of you.
You — the woman I once was.
I remember you so vividly sometimes it hurts. You wore red lipstick with trembling conviction, always unsure whether you were dressing for war or for worship. You walked into rooms as if you owned them, then stood in the corner tracing escape routes in your mind. You were intoxicating — to others, yes, but mostly to yourself. You didn’t yet know that beauty was never meant to be armor.
You fell hard, often, and mostly for the wrong ones. You left some without looking back. Others, you held onto until your hands bled. There is one — always one — whose name you never say aloud, but still hear in your sleep. And I know. I remember. I remember how it felt to want something so fiercely, you mistook the ache for purpose.
Now I am someone’s mother. Someone’s wife. Someone’s keeper of peace and grocery lists. And I love them. My husband’s steady kindness. My son’s laughter spilling down the hall like windchimes. I love this life — the slowness, the certainty, the rituals. But still, on days like this, I remember you.
I remember how you lived. How you made mistakes and refused to regret them. How you let poetry guide you more than practicality. How you stood barefoot in the rain and whispered secrets to the night.
I don’t resent you. You are a story I no longer live, but still know by heart. My son will never meet you — not as you were — and I’m glad for that. But I see you in the mirror sometimes, just behind my eyes. I remember how deeply you felt, even when you pretended not to. You were reckless, yes. But you were alive.
