Written December 2024, Palma, Mallorca
Prologue
In the dark hours of a crisp October morning, I sat by my mum’s side, my hand resting softly on her shoulder, as I intently listened to her breathing.
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
On that morning, rays of sunlight broke through the window glass after several days of rain. I opened up it up and put on Elvis—her favorite. My mum’s spirit went on its way home. It is, perhaps, as real as life will ever get. I watched my mum die, and yet, I still find myself wanting to call her in those quiet moments of a tough day. To tell her that I’m doing a little better—after a year of being my worst. In the month’s leading up to October, I was reactive, I felt vengeful, I developed tunnel vision, and I fell into a trance of fear and unworthiness.
I’ve always carried a deep belief that life was meant to be beautiful. Growing up, I would often sit on my windowsill, staring into the black night, blocking out the chaos around me, and I knew in my bones that if I just kept going, light would eventually appear. But last year I lost that belief. Every day the darkness closed in, and I couldn’t see a way out. That was fucking scary.
I was no longer at sea, but waves were crashing in on me, and instead of moving with them, I fought back. In the cold of December, I felt like I’d lost the plot. I would come home every day and dissolve into the floor, sobbing like I was pouring out a part of myself I couldn’t get back. But then.. a moment of surrender. Layers of ego peeling away like skin after a burn. A blue spark of clarity like I just unlocked a new level of awareness. Holding myself with kindness for the first time in a long time.
Wave, calm, wave.
Grief moves like the tide. It recedes just long enough for you to stand, only to sweep you off your feet again. But if you’re lucky, you grow gills. And so, I’ve been trying to swim towards the surface, to see that glimmer of light. To force myself into expression because silence is the loudest shout, and I know that my journey requires me to heal out loud.
Flame, ash, flame.
Life breaks you and rebuilds you in the same breath, and I am learning to float in the space between the two. As much as my mum loved having me by her side, she always cheered me on—reminding me that life is meant to be lived, not just endured. So I wrote a poem—to remind myself of that, too.
I don’t know what’s next, but I think I’ll keep going.
Just to see what happens.
I think you should keep going,
because there are sunsets
so beautiful they’ll split you open,
and every swollen sky
leaves you hollow and howling,
reaching for colors you cannot hold,
as if they might fill the quiet spaces
with something brighter than darkness.
I think you should keep going,
because there are so many hearts
you have yet to hold,
their warmth bleeding into the cracks
you swore no one could reach.
And hands—rough and soft—
will weave themselves into yours,
threads of something strange, something holy,
stitching together the parts of you
that don’t know how to be whole.
I think you should keep going,
because there are mountains you haven’t climbed,
their peaks humming like wires in the sky,
the air biting your lungs, sharp and mean.
And when you run fast—
faster than the ghosts of the past,
wind slapping your face, skin stinging,
you’ll finally feel the strength
you’ve carried all along.
I think you should keep going,
because she would want you to,
to eat the world, raw and wild,
to let it twist you and tear you open,
to carry her love with you—a flame,
blazing through the nights,
that seem to have no end,
lighting up the corners
where shadows come to hide.
I think you should keep going,
because somewhere out there,
a place you’ve never been, is calling you home—
And you will tell the trees everything:
how you lost your way,
how October never let you go.
And their leaves will murmur
what you’ve always known:
she’s in the breeze, in the soil,
in your bones, she’s in you
wherever you go.
I think you should keep going,
because the pain will soften,
not vanish, but soften—
and when it does, you’ll have space again
to marvel at the small, impossible things:
the way the air trembles with rain
the way sunlight dances on your skin,
the way this messy, fragile existence
can still shatter you with wonder.
And I think you should keep going,
because you don’t know what’s next—
and maybe, just maybe,
it’s something beautiful.
I think you should keep going,
just to see what happens.
— Sara Fondo
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