november, ix.

Once a week, I find myself on a tennis court. Different from my childhood court in every possible way. On a rooftop of a building in the middle of a desert. There is a view and yesterday, the moon was right above me. Every time I play better than the week before. Every week the days in between get longer. The sound of the ball reminds me of who I was before. Who I was then. She asked me earlier today to sit with it. To sit with everything I’ve gone through because I have gone through so much. For a while, hers was the only voice I’d hear but my own is slowly starting to sound less like a whisper.