You never know when you might see yourself in the mirror – not glance, not look, but see – and what once seemed solid appears translucent. What once looked like perfect strength, by common definition, now strikes you as fragile.
The cup you are drinking from slips out of your hand, deconstructing at your feet. Not bothering to collect the broom and dustpan, you pack the car. You pack the car lightly and go.
You take everything they thought they knew about you, and you take every last little scrap of how they think you should be, of who they think you should be, and you just burn it.
Holding the gray-white tresses of ash in the cradle of your upturned palm, you blow.
Window down, foot on the pedal.