I’m leaning back, digging my heels in, doing everything I possibly can to ground myself down, right here, right now. If I have any say in the matter, I will not take a step forward.
There’s a small, childlike part of me that actually seems to believe my stubborn antics can keep the inevitable from happening. But no, I’m really not that powerful.
I can stare at my watch with what feels like enough intensity to break the glass; but I cannot keep those hands from moving forward–perkily ticking away the seconds.
I feel like I’m trapped in a conspiratorial Rube Goldberg experiment. The clock hands reach midnight. The bell chimes. A bright red ball bumps and rolls its way down the track toward a ridiculous-looking figure at the base of the contraption: She’s short, with a curly, blonde mop of hair. Her lips are pressed tight together and face reddened with the effort of making herself immovable.
The ball crashes into a lever, which then opens the trap door she is standing on, dropping her through the floor, landing her in the last place she wants to be: tomorrow.
There have been quite a few times in the last few years when she has found herself in this predicament, facing a day…a person…a situation she must find her way through.
And she does. She will. She’ll take a deep breath, pull up her big girl panties, and remind herself that she is loved and never alone. These two truths.
And then she’ll take one step forward.