Temporary Escape to Oz

Ever have one of those days where you wish a damn tornado would show up and carry you straight to Oz?

Fine.
I’ll wear the tacky red ruby slippers if that’s the price of admission.

I can’t sing, but I’m sure there’s a recording somewhere— I’ll lip-sync with conviction.

I’ll follow the yellow brick road, but if the lion, the straw man, and the tin man want to tag along, they’d better keep their distance.

I already manage enough crazy, fragile, emotional projects in my life.

The Wicked Witch? She’d meet her match.

And flying monkeys don’t scare me— I’ve raised three kids. Try surviving them for a week.

So yes.
Bring it on.

When I reach the Emerald City— that giant green castle filled with strange people (like a mall, but louder)— I won’t be looking for wisdom or the man behind the curtain.

I’ll be looking for the spa. The deli. And better-looking shoes.

And when I’ve had my fill of strange magic and far-from-reality relief, when my nervous system exhales, when I remember who I am—

I’ll return on a broomstick, chanting:

I am ready to come home.

“I am ready to come home.”

Beginning or End

On the hill above the town,

where every street still knows her name, she stands with a bottle of water twisting the cap as the past flickers below.

The town that raised her. The streets that shaped her. The life she once fit into.

She stills herself, as if motion alone might decide everything.

The sky deepens. Evening holds its breath.

For a moment, she lets go of every story she’s carried— every expectation, every weight mistaken for destiny.

Darkness comes, not as an ending, but as a pause.

A surrender to not knowing.

Is this the beginning, or the end— or the quiet space
where choosing finally becomes possible?

The Man and His Music

The tattered case shone with silver and gold.

Appeared as well-traveled as he did.

I did not recognize the music, and it seemed out of tune.

He had a symphony playing in his head;

You could see it in his eyes, drifting into his music.

I never said a word; I just went through the motions and let the notes sore.

He plays a somber melody, but he is not sad,

he is where he wants to be, with his music and the people.

The brick building frames him as a painting, letting the scene exist in history and in the present.

Without the man sitting on his stool, violin case opened beside him, his bow worn, his instrument well cared for, you would notice a missing segment of space.

After time passes and journeys are met, the music will play and play on it shall.

Today Hurts

Today hurts.
I feel muddy and worn—
dragged through moments
that did not ask permission.

I am torn to bits,
pieces scattered,
some no longer fitting
where they once belonged.

The days ahead feel unsure,
their shapes blurred,
their promises quiet.

Fear tightens its grip,
strangling my senses
until even breath feels heavy.

I want the numbness
to wrap around me—
not to disappear,
just to soften the edges.

I want today
not to hurt.