Yerba buena

by Nina LaCour

How easy it was to forget the rest when they were small and safe in the woods.

She couldn’t spare any words of comfort. To do so would slice her open.

When it was over, the familiar swell of loss.

Fine, for something so healing to have a tinge of heartbreak, too.

So this was how it felt—to be dealt a blow, to pause, to keep going in spite of it. Not to start over but to continue.

She wanted the pierce and pull back, the sting of it, the knowledge she was being sewn up.

It’s okay, she told herself, even as the ache felt impossible to endure. It’s okay.

So right while it lasted. So sweet, and bitter, too.