Sometimes I ask myself “Where was I?” as I look down at my feet trying to remember the shoes I wore when it happened. I looked down a lot back then. The uncertainty of the things in front of me became the back drop to the reality of laced up leather or suede. Sometimes, if I picture them perfectly, I can quickly glance up and catch a ghostly smile flashing between the flickering of my eyelids. These moments are like small dreams I am allowed to relive to reignite lost feelings. I can once again be overwhelmed by the weight of being known and being loved. I get to remember May 25, 2015 when I stayed up all night with a bottle of wine, just to watch the moon. Then I can cherish the gift of being loved without being understood amidst dew drops on car windows and frost clinging to trees. I am not sure why I do this to myself. I want to believe it helps me be me.