This.
Remembering all the other ways there are to tell the story of my life. More than the stories I was born into, the words I have gathered about me like garments. Behind the grief and wanting to howl at the moon: the rest of the story lies waiting to be told. The strength of women, their straight backs. The sheer joy of living, the pleasure of sating the senses. All the fierce, deep love. So much that it spills over sometimes, even if it comes out in the wrong language.
A kind of relief blooming in my chest. An unfurling, breathing easier. Everything will be okay. Happiness is not beyond me.
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