there are so many ways to fail,
but I chose the one that let me
wander through the streets of Cape Town
with no rand in my hands,
and my lungs full of
detached from stem.
The street guard approached me sitting on the stair in front of the flat we were staying at in Cape Town. He said to me,
“Don’t cry, sister.”
I had hoped to stay hidden. It was midnight and I’d made another romantic mistake. This one was so public, expensive, and far from home; I wasn’t yet sure how to recover. So, I crossed my legs and let my sneaker dangle close to the ground. I crossed my arms and took a look at the older gentleman on the other side of the gate.
His concern was a comfort. He was the voice of God for the little girl inside of me that was asking why I’d travelled so far to learn more of the brokenness of men. He told me I was strong and worthy of love. He told me to give it some time and to trust myself to make the right decisions.
Almost a year later, I sit inside of bakery at midnight wondering if I’ll fail again. I wonder how I’ll know if I’ve made the right decision. That’s the thing about love and risk. There is always a possibility that something won’t work. Yet, there’s some beauty in taking a risk to find out. Perhaps that risk will lead to another ending, but it will have been a beautiful discovery; a process that I would have never known, had I not tried.