The first time – when things were ropey-precarious, and tentatively she hovered at the still place, it emerged between her eyes. A presence larger than everything that had gone before, greater than all yet to come. And the horn pushed out – gentle, probing, like a searchlight, something so pure and illuminating that everything that weighed her down could recede, dwindle. This that is stronger than the bruises on the inside. This that heals her from the inside-out.
Later she’ll meet it in dreams, in whisper-touches, in red roses ripe in bloom, in that certain feeling in her belly that says ‘Stop now,’ ‘Rest now,’ ‘Go now;’ in the place without words that maps a smile on her mouth, offers softness when the whole world is tired, seedy, when she is worn thin. The landscapes change. She changes. The difference between before and after is that now it’s here – whatever happens: it’s here.