it is so easy to sink, to slide,

to sullenly allow myself to drown

in the blankets of depression that feel all too 

comforting

familiar

heavy.

It is so simple to wallow in my well of tears,

to close my eyes, shun the rising sun,

and pray tomorrow will never come.

But then, I remember.

When I was young, my dad would

push, push, push me on a swing

and I'd sing

higher, higher,

and he would laugh, and say

"Girl, you're a flyer."

I remember that the fight within me,

a light sometimes as frail as a candle,

can be stoked into a roaring blaze.

I remember I have a fight.

The same fight that allowed me to look upon

the tear stained faces of my parents,

my own cheeks damp,

and tell them

I could not stay.

The same fight that helped me through

all 42.25 kilometers of a marathon,

when halfway I felt like giving up.

The same fight that gave me the courage to walk

into the abyss of the unknown,

leaving behind everything that I loved,

in the hope that this new path 

would be better.

Not knowledge,

only hope.

It's the same fight 

that after every lonely night

I cry,

I can rise again with the dawn

not knowing today will be a little bit better

but believing it will.

Because when life and all its worries,

all its hurts,

all its pains and sorrows,

push, push, pushes me down,

I pump my legs and scream 

"Higher, higher!"

remembering the last time

I saw my father,

tears like dew drops on his lids,

eyes shining with pride,

as he watched me board the plane,

waving goodbye.

"Girl, you're a flyer."

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