It’s becoming what it is.

At the edges of my vision I sense a sort of erosion, a crumbling of the scene of what used to be, and the image of me, standing within that scene. The edges are beginning to blur.

That life will never be erased completely in my mind’s eye.

But it’s going. It’s leaving me. A new space is opening up.

A blank canvas rolls itself out for me. I study it, not quite ready to make a mark.

I am becoming, possibly, simply what I am.

I am not quite married. I am not quite single. Not much of a label at all will do, these days. I can’t think of one.

I am a mother, certainly. But the mothering comes from a place in me that’s been with me from the beginning. Simply…myself. “Mother” is no longer a label I’ve pasted across all that is. All that was, of me.

Now it feels more like mothering from the inside-out, rather than the reverse.

This is good. I welcome this.

And I write, of course, about these things. Which I suppose makes me a writer, for all intensive descriptive purposes.

But that, too, is coming from a different place now.

Forward. And present. At the same time.