On

A plastic yellow toy truck lies upended in the river, making slow moves down the rapids, lodged at every turn in an obstacle along the way. Four black wheels stick up into the air. My shoulders ache from working on the farm, but it's not the ache of cramped New York City white collar work, not the ache of muscles held too tightly along with breath. I feel taller than I have in years. 

You check in for a flight back to reality. Feel your spine prepare for other wavelengths. Wonder if you'll remember the things you've learned. If you'll learn the things you've remembered. 

As you pack, a note falls out of your pocket. You turn it over in your hands, wonder the question it's asking. 

It says, Say yes when you are afraid to. 

But you are not sure you are afraid of anything, anymore.