The boxes crowding my living room, reminding me that I have agreed to the winds of change, can go. The dresses, the shoes that made me beautiful, at least in my mind during those years when I was hidden even from myself, can go. The bottles, tall, short and fat filled with creams scented and pearled, extracted from fruits no one has ever seen but desperately need to stay alive, can go. The promises to do better, live better, be better can go too. My mind equally cluttered with these demands. I want freedom, a suitcase and the hands of my children who are both well today. Yesterday one was not and his injury has been repaired. So was mine. He is all I need.

Victoria