The Second Act

I remember odd things. Parts of jobs where all I wanted was to surprise and stun coworkers with some magical, potent and powerful performance. Maybe I’m secretly a virtuoso? A drumming prodigy. A cappella superstar lurking on YouTube?

I remember feeling how good it would be to slam, scream, hoot and howl in front of people I spend 40 hours a week with. And for them to not mind. To be amazed. Wide eyed and wonder filled, they’d plead for an answer; how, Kaylie, how? How are you so raw and present and ancient and pleasant? How did we miss this? Miss you? And, me so modest, I shrug and we go on. All of us knowing I’m different but now in a good way. A talented way. A brag to your friends way.

I only want to howl and scream so others know it’s ok now. We can do it. We should be doing it. It’s a prima human knowing, the thin red cord between us all that declares humanity exists if we answer the pulls. For some of us, the cord is pulling so hard we’re leaning. On our knees. Pulled so hard we give in so the cord doesn’t snap.

We should all be screaming. It’s ok now.