Just because you hear the rain, doesn’t mean you’re drowning. I’m seventeen when I find out what surrendering means:

dangling my legs over the side of a steep landing. The edge drops off to the ravine where rocks sharply reach towards the sky- begging for a way to get out. I watch the water lap around their jagged corners without mercy. I wish I had that much power. The frothy mess meets in the middle and I’m hypnotized by it’s force. It’s March skies- spring is creeping through the fields- waiting to give life back to everything that took its last breath for winter. I wish it could bring everything back to life as easily as the flowers. I want you to know that I never thought about jumping from that edge. We all heard stories about people falling, but the town always questioned if it was a clumsy trip over the steep hill, or so much more. So much more. So much more. We all know I’m terrified of water, anyways.

A part of me swears to walk away from this town. It takes three plans to run away to convince ourselves that we are never going through with it. I don’t have the gull, but I think you do. I think there’s still a part of you that can. I think you have more of a reason to. Later that night I get in the passenger seat of my fathers car. We laugh and harmonize echoing tunes for miles. Watch him take time and seize it for a moment- his words hang mid air and he crushes the sentences in my palms. I inhale the truth like a poison, but still he smiled. Said he was sick. Said it’s only as bad as we make it. Said time is up to God and not us. I watched the rainstorm set in as we approached the last stop sign before turning onto our street. The heaving drops daring to break through the glass. But just because you hear the rain, doesn’t mean you’re drowning. AMT.