The Shape of Freedom
I fear the day will come
when I no longer feel presentable enough
to face the world—
the morning I meet my reflection
and flinch at the stranger looking back,
quietly deciding
that home is safer than being seen.
Maybe that’s why I’m in such a hurry
to find Home.
Not just a house,
but a place where I can wake in my pajamas
and tell myself, gently,
you don’t have to go outside today
unless your soul asks you to.
A place where outside
is exactly where I ache to be—
where green pastures breathe with the wind,
where animals move through their gentle rituals,
and beyond it all
the Atlantic breathes in and out,
each wave an open invitation
to remember what freedom tastes like.
No rush.
No more clocking in.
Just me, the land,
and the wind as my companion—
whistling melodies
I’ve never heard before.
Bare feet in sand.
Salt on my lips.
The breeze wrapping around me
like a long-lost friend.
Freedom calls to me now,
louder than ever.
Her voice lives in my dreams,
in the photographs pinned to my wall,
in the quiet certainty of my bones.
I know this much:
she wants me
as much as I want her.
I was meant to be there in May.
I still see the ticket in my mind—
my escape route,
my breath of air
after months of drowning.
When it was taken from me,
it wasn’t a holiday that vanished.
It was a lifeline.
It was how I was staying alive.
I imagine walking beside my shepherd dog—
his warmth against my leg,
his joy quickening as we near the water.
He seems to say, let me go, I want to swim.
And I hesitate, afraid
to lose him to the tide.
Oh my shepherd dog …
I’m certain we’ve met before.
I see you years ago,
moving through fields,
gathering sheep with calm precision,
every step a quiet dance of purpose.
And oh, my dear Freedom—
you have bewitched me
with your wildness,
your people,
your green that refuses to end.
I don’t want to see anything else anymore.
I only want to return to you—
to walk your shores
until the emptiness loosens its grip,
to drink deeply of the peace
I have hungered for
far too long.
