I see her at the pool at least once a week, and I've been taking notes.

I can no longer write pretty.

I thought it was a form of writer’s block or the emotional toll of the last few months.

I thought for sure this transition—separating from my husband and moving into my own place—would be more energizing than anything.

Crying probably needs to be on my to-do list every day.

The world appears broken, our bodies show their wear, our lives scatter like shards — and yet we continue to surrender to the compulsion to live and create

I don’t want to die, at least not yet, I haven’t run down the limestone-lined streets of Lauterbrunnen or felt the spray of all its seventy-two waterfalls.

I run out to the gravel trail that stretches miles upon miles behind my home, desperate to stop the man in the giant mower.

I came home from my run last week to find a crew massacring the greenspace just beyond my back yard.

I write to please. Everyone.

I'm not afraid of falling apart, coming undone, because I know who catches me now.