Between Chapters

I am in between chapters.
It is a tender place.

Sometimes I struggle to turn the page over—
what if the next page carries an illustration I cannot bear to see?
What if it is horrendous—
ivy curling around my body, chaining arms and feet,
a goblet of liquid that pulls me into sleep,
never to wake again, never to turn another page?

It terrifies me.

And yet, the book is vast and heavy,
its spine unyielding, its pages many.
I must keep turning them,
if I ever wish to glimpse the end.

I watch dust settle on its cover,
a slow, patient invitation:
open me gently,
read me softly,
be present with me.
Let each syllable sink into the mind,
let each page be pondered tenderly
before the turning.

Still, the enticement grows strong,
so I whisper to my heart:

But what if the next page is beautiful?
What if it bursts with colors,
with daring climaxes,
plots and escapades?
What if it spills over with butterflies,
with roses and garlands?
What if each page grows lighter as I turn,
until my hands learn the rhythm of letting go?

And what if,
when I reach the end,
I find it has become my favorite story—
a book worn soft by love,
a book wholly,
tenderly,
mine

.