You are me and so I will be brave.
You are you and so I will be brave.
You . . . are . . . and so I will be brave.
I will be brave.
For you I will face the ghosts that whisper howled cruelties from the shadows and insinuate their whetted selves into the folds of my blankets as I sleep.
I will be brave.
For you I will dare to ask the questions to which I do not know the answers.
I will be brave.
For you, I will risk failure.
For you, I will be judged.
For you, I will extend beseeching hands.
For you, I will want.
For you, I will speak of my desires.
For you.
I will be brave.
“Look,” I say, directing your attention, “Look at the clouds above and behind the mountains just ahead . . . they are like tissued ghosts being pulled from their earthly containment, one by one, as though the mountains are stacked within a million ghosts high . . . now released by invisible plucking fingers and set upon the world.” I swipe at tears as I imagine all that will be faced.
I will be brave.
“Look,” you say, directing my attention, “Perhaps the mountains are the things you fear, and perhaps they are being emptied of their power, one tissue-paper ghost at a time.”
Perhaps.
I will be brave.
For you.
