No Ropes to Hold Me


She’s climbing out.

It’s not the plateau she’s trying to reach, the one with the little table set up for two with champagne flutes and caviar.

She’s looking for the finger holds, the dip in the wall where the big toe fits, the curve into the side of a mountain offering respite, the one she presses herself into, flat and panting, where she prays the sweep of the gaze doesn’t detect the roundness of her backside against the rocky surface to which she now clings.

Belay on.

There’s goodness in her world. She is the root of it.

Belay off.

Her limbs reach out for to her circle of women. She hears their stories. They nod, knowingly. They try to preserve the normalcy. Some are brutally honest. Some want for her what they didn’t want for themselves. No one has answers, but they have her back.

Belay on.

Her friend tells her that in Russia, everyone has a starter marriage. It is common to have the marriage of first loves, the fairytale connection that screams soul-mate, the fantasy of white wedding dresses, perfect children and date nights all contained by a white picket fence and a family dog guarding.

Belay off.

And then they leave all of it.


What she needs now is laughter and lost-ness and a harness of patience thrown over her shoulders. 


#for Ret. Pictures courtesy of reincarnation. She was a flapper once, danced with gin in hand to the jazz band. Images courtesy of the web.





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