I trace the ridges with my fingertips, I can barely feel them. Not that long ago they seemed far more prominent, of course they were fresh then, but it was more than that. They seemed mountainous to both of us, insurmountable. Now they feel like nothing more than bumps in a road that we have already driven over. They’re still there, scars can’t be filled in like potholes, but they just mark our journey together, signposts to where we’ve come from, not a part of where we are going.
They were mountains once though. You had the strength to climb them, to reach the summit, to poke your head through the clouds and point us in a new direction. You found a smoother way. The contours of our map have never been spread so far.
The Write Site 