She was wild and free when I met her. She’d been left alone to blossom in the big field that ran down to the stream in front her childhood house. And little shackled me, bound and gagged and so well trained, such a good girl, my god. Meeting her was like leaving a stuffy cellar and emerging into pure oxygen.
So I loved her. What else could I have done?
And I tied her up with my own fear and my own pain. I called it love and nurturing and security, and maybe it was some of those things, too. But it was also building a pen, moving the stakes in closer each year. Teaching her the call and response obedience I knew so well. I picked the flower and I crushed the petals with my suffocating need.
How do I undo that? How do I let her go, let her be free again, let her grow again and feel the wind around her? How do I do that, still loving her, still craving her?