My editor posted a picture of himself editing my book in Paris-
And I cried.
The breeze outside was warm and the air smelled like smoked barbecue-
Laughter surrounding the camp chairs I so comfortably lounged on,
And I cried anyways.
The teenager in me who always knew I’d write a book someday sat proudly in my chest-
The adult in me who promised my dad I’d follow my dreams breathed a sigh of relief and
The girl you punished for not becoming this person quick enough exhaled.
What a shame it is for you to have been so selfish-
But what a blessing it became that you were.
Experiences shape us into who we are;
But it’s up to us to paint the canvas.
Without your actions there never would’ve been him-
And without him I never would’ve had the inspiration.
My editor posted a picture of himself editing my book in Paris-
And I cried.
How’s that for healing?
