I woke one

morning with words

etched into my

skin. I tried to

read them in

mirror, but the

writing was backwards.

My friends noticed

the words and

asked why I

had tattooed myself

with just a

fraction of a

sentence. I woke

the next morning

to find the

words had doubled

on my skin,

snaking down the

inside of my

arm. I went

to the doctors

and they asked

why I had

marked myself with

words. They didn’t

understand when I

told them the

words had just

appeared there on

their own. They

sent me home

with a mild

sedative. When I

woke on the

third morning, I

found that both

my arms were

now covered in

looping black words.

I tried to

read them, attempted

to make sense

of what they

said, but I

could not see

all of the

words. Looking in

the mirror, I

saw they had

started to appear

along the back

of my neck.

My mother was

the one who

explained it to

me. She read

the words, running

her fingers along

some of them,

turning my arms

in order to

read others. She

looked at me.

“Don’t you recognize this?”

I shook my head

no. I shrugged.

“I haven’t been able to see all of them to read them. What does it say?”

“You should know. You wrote them.”

I was shocked.

“What do you mean?”

She pointed to

the words that

ran along the

inside of my

arm, then ran

her fingers along.

“As the cards flew from my grasp, I knew I had made the right decision. I was the Broken Man no longer.”

She paused for

breath, and to

point to another

set of words.

“And this here? These say: I had let a piece of my past go and looked forward to what the future would bring.”

I shook my head,

not knowing what

to say. My

mother took my

hands and held

them in hers.

“Your life is a living poem. A wonderful, exciting, awesome living poem.”

I wondered at

her words, at

what they meant.

What the words

on my skin

meant. She could

see my confusion.

“You put so much of yourself in your words, it is only natural that they will mark you even as you mark the page. Do not be afraid of them.”

“How do I get the words out of my skin?”

She looked at

me with a

half smile and

that wise look

she got in

her eyes, deep

and somehow comforting.

“Write. More words will come and you will always be marked by them, but you are a living poem. It has always been this way.”

I nodded and

pulled a piece

of paper towards

me. I put my

hand down on

the paper and

watched as the words

on my skin

began to slip

and slide off

of it. I

looked at the

page to see

what they had

to say.

We were walking

back from the

coffee shop, drinks

in hand, when

I saw him.

I gestured to

her and made

sure she had

seen. I pointed

to him, saying

That’s my ex-husband.

It was the

first time I had

seen him in

six years. Later,

I wondered at

his appearance.

He was but

the latest in

a long line

of people from

my past that

I had seen

recently. I had

come across people

I used to know,

ex-boyfriends, ex-friends, ex-lovers.

I was wondering

at my lack

of a reaction,

at the absence

of anger that

I felt, that

had carried with

me for so

long. I had

worn my his

betrayal as if

it were a

hair shirt, or

a stone around

my neck. Instead

of reacting in

anger, I felt

oddly buoyant and

light. I walked

over to her

and asked her:

Why aren’t I reacting more? If this were last year, seeing him would have depressed me for the day. I’ve seen all these people from my past and they aren’t affecting me as I thought they would if I ever saw them again.

I paused for

breath and for

what I really

wanted to ask.

What gives?

She looked at

me with that

sage look in

her eyes that

she had and

smiled at me.

You were ready.

She said simply.

You’re a lot better now then you were. You’ve healed. You’re a different person now. You’re on the right path and you’re going where you need to. You wouldn’t be seeing them otherwise.

I nodded and

thought of all

the emotions that

these people had

caused me, all

the hurt, depression,

sadness, angst, rage,

despair and malaise.

I realised that

what I was

feeling right then

and there was

simple, unequivocal happiness.

I let go

of the pain,

of the heartache,

of the self-degradation,

and stopped judging

myself by how

other people from

my past had

seen me. All

that there was

now is me

as I chose

to be and

the emotion of

happiness. I choose

to be happy.

All the rest

is just stardust

and the possibilities

of the future.

I came upon

a doorway. It

was tall and

narrow and was

made from old

wood painted red

that had faded

over time in

the sun. The

doorway was unremarkable

except for two

reasons: It stood

in the middle

of a parking

lot and from

the open door

there came the

sound of laughter.

A boy came

out and looked

at me. He wore

round glasses and

had a dark brown

mop of hair.

He smiled, the

smile filled with

gaps. He let out

another loud laugh.

“Do you want to come see the garden?”

I looked around to

see if the

boys parents were

around, but there was

no one. He

laughed loudly again.

“Don’t be afraid. You’ll be okay.”

“Where are your parents?”

I asked him.

Surely, he wasn’t

alone. He grinned.

“They’re close. They’re your parents! Come on!”

Beckoning with one

hand, he raced

away from the

doorway. He stood,

looking at me,

a smile still

playing upon his

lips. He was standing

in what looked

to be a large

meadow surrounded by

trees. I went

around to the

back of the

doorway, but there

was nothing. Only

a brick wall

and some grease

stains. I went

back around to

the front and

looked inside again.

The boy still

stood there, looking

at me with

twinkling, bright eyes.

“Come on! There’s nothing to be afraid of!”

I nodded, not

trusting myself to

speak. Stepping over

the threshold of

the door, there

was a loud rushing

sound and my

ears popped from

sudden pressure. Then

I was through,

and my ears

cleared. The boy

reached for my

hand. When our

fingers touched, a

wind began to

dance in the

grass and flew

upwards. I looked

at the boy.

“What was that?”

He took his

time before he

answered my question.

“The meadow remembers you. Come on, the garden isn’t that far.”

He pulled me

along and within

moments, we were

at the entrance

of a small

garden. There were

orchids and roses,

petunias and chrysanthemums,

tiger lilies and

ivy. There were

flowers of every

kind, but they

were all relatively

small, as if

they had just

started to grow.

I looked beyond

the small garden

and saw another

one behind it.

I pointed with

a shaking hand.

“What’s over there? What’s that garden?”

The boys face

darkened. He looked

sad all of

a sudden, as

if the other

garden held nightmares.

“That’s the dead garden. Nothing grows there anymore.”

He could see

from my face

that I wanted

to explore it.

So he led

the way, keeping

hold of my

hand. As we

walked, a question

occurred to me.

“If this garden is dead, how did the new one grow?”

The boy laughed

again and the

breeze responded in

kind, laughing among

the grass. The

boy looked at

me with strangely

serious, mature eyes.

“Do you really not know?”

I shook my

head, but an

answer came to

me moments before

he said it.

“They come from imagination. From ideas. All you have to do is think of it and the ideas will grow.”

He led on

until we came

to the dead

garden. It’s plants

were all dead

and none that

I could name.

It was filled

with spiky plants

that looked as

if they were

ready to draw

blood should we

touch one. I

looked at the

boy, trying to

find my voice.

“Did ideas grow this garden too?”

He nodded, a

tear sliding down

his cheek. He

made no effort

to wipe it

off his face.

“Yours. It was your ideas and imagination that caused both gardens to grow.”

I was shaken

but his words

had the ring

of truth to

them. I asked

the first thing

that came to

mind, letting the

words spill out.

“How could I grow this?”

“You were unhappy. The thoughts that you have hold power. What’s inside your mind takes root in the real world.”

“Then why does the other garden exist?”

The boy let

out a hearty

laugh and squeezed

my hand tightly.

“Because your better now. We’re better.”

I looked back

at the healthy

garden, so full

of life. Then

I looked at

the dead garden.

“I want you to help me to do something. Will you?”

“Of course.”

“If imagination caused this garden, maybe new thoughts, new ideas, will make it better again.”

I was pretty

sure I knew

who the boy

was, what he

was. He nodded

and took both

my hands. I

took a deep

breath and imagined

life growing around

us, coming out

of the dark

soil. There was

nothing at first,

but then we

both heard the ground

around us begin

to crack and

rumble. It shook

for a moment

and then grass

shot out of

the ground where

before there was

only black, burnt

earth. Trees shot

up out of

the ground, their

leaves green and

whole. Flowers slid

out of the ground

with small pops,

hundreds of them,

thousands of them.

Gone was the

black earth and

the plants that

looked as if

they would draw

blood. In the

trees, I could

hear birdsong. I

looked down at

the boy, smiling.

“We did it!”

I couldn’t help

letting out a

loud, joyful laugh.

He nodded, smiling

“You did it. You did all of this.”

I looked at

him, really looked

at him closely.

“You’re me, aren’t you? My inner child? You look exactly as I did when I was younger. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

He nodded again.

“Because you couldn’t.”

“Then where are we? Where is this place?”

He gave me

a big grin.

“Would you believe me if I said we’re inside your mind?”

I didn’t need

to think of

a proper response.

“Yes. I would. It’s the only thing that makes sense. But how do I get out?”

“The way you came. Remember, what you imagine is given life and anything is possible.”

I turned to

walk back through

the doorway. The

boy didn’t move.

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

I asked him.

“No, I think I’ll stay here for a while longer. Now that you’ve found me again, I won’t ever be far away. Never forget me, Okay?”

“I won’t. I promise.”

I turned towards

the doorway, the

trees and plants

swaying in a

soft breeze. As

I stepped back

through the doorway,

I looked back

through the door.

There was my

inner child, playing

amongst the trees

and flowers, with

joy written on

his face and

laughter in his

heart. I closed

the door, knowing

he’d be safe

now and began

to make my

way home again.

I was lost

inside of myself.

I had forgotten

what it was

to actually live.

I had given

up, had chosen

to hide in

the dark. It

wasn’t as painful

as the light.

I had given

up. I was

raised not to

be a quitter,

but I could

see no other

way, could not

see around the

dark mountain inside

of my head.

I lay down

that night to

sleep and prayed

for it to

be endless, to

not wake up.

I prayed so

hard that tears

coursed down my

face while sleep

laid its claim

on my body.

I woke to a

noise in the

kitchen. I got

out of bed

and walked toward

the noise. My

grandmother, long ago

dead, stood making

a jug of

pink lemonade. She

heard me and

turned, a smile

upon her face.

Better drink up while it’s still cold. If it gets warm, it tastes like piss.

Her smile deepened

and she held

out a glass

to me. I

took it, my

hands shaking slightly.

How can you be here?

I asked her.

You died when I was eight.

She smiled and

motioned at my

glass of pink

lemonade, almost

waving at it.

Aren’t you going to drink it? I came a long way to make it for you.

I took a sip

and the tart

sweetness of it

flooded my mouth.

Now, listen. You need some sense knocked into you. You can’t keep living like this.

How else can I live?

You can stop being sorry for yourself for one thing. You can get out there and live.

I don’t know how.

She gave me

a look that

I remembered well.

It was a

look that said

you had better

pay close attention.

You were doing fine before. Now you’ve been given another chance, and you’re choosing to spend it in darkness?

I tried to

think of everything

I was feeling,

all that I

wanted to say.

I don’t know how to do anything else. I’m lost.

So find yourself again. It’s a simple change to make, a simple fix.

I don’t know how.

She sighed and

poured herself a

glass of lemonade.

Her stare softened.

She took a

sip and spoke

oh so softly.

Look, I know what’s happened to you is hard. And I know that change is hard, that it sometimes takes everything you have. You have to make a change for the better.

I don’t know how.

You keep saying that, but why do you have this?

She pointed at

a small magnet

on my fridge.

It was bright

yellow and had

six small words,

six syllables that

resounded, loud and

strong, even through

my current haze.

My life is up to me.

The words sounded

almost like music

coming from my

lips. My grandmother

nodded, smiling kindly.

Who gave you that magnet?

My mother.

Smart woman, your mother. Always liked her. You need to remember those words, every time you’re afraid of making a change. Say the words again.

I nodded and

did so. My

voice was still

soft and quiet.

My life is up to me.

No, no, that’s not working. Why are you living in such a dark place? You need a little light.

My grandmother snapped

her fingers and

the magnet began

to pulse softly

with light, shining

from the fridge.

Now say the words again.

My life is up to me.

The light from

the magnet grew

a little brighter.

And now say it again, but mean it this time, shout it!

My life is up to me!

The light increased

until it was

almost blinding. I

had to shield

my eyes from

its brilliance. I

heard my grandmother’s

voice again. She

sounded far away now.

Never forget, you control what changes in your life. That’s what gives you courage. I am so proud of you.

The light grew

even brighter, more

luminous. I had

to close my

eyes. When I

opened them again,

I was in

my bedroom, still

in bed. I

shook myself awake,

filled with an

emptiness that just

wanted to be filled.

It was a dream.

I said, not

wanting it to

be so. It

had seemed so

real, so true.

I got out

of bed and

walked into the

kitchen. There, sitting

on the counter,

was a jug

filled with pink

lemonade and two

glasses, half full.

I looked around.

Grandmother?

I said. My voice

was soft. I heard

a sound that

was like the

snapping of fingers.

I turned and

looked at the

fridge. There, the

little magnet with

six simple words

was glowing bright

like the sun.

My life is up to me.

I said, my

voice finding strength.

My life is up to me.