I wonder if there’s a place where broken caterpillars go. A place where the wingless worms learn to fly without their colorful flaps, soaring upward beyond the ache of their affliction. And I wonder if they’d miss them, those wings they had so long since anticipated for — if they’d conjure up grandiose thoughts about what shape they would have taken on or the colors they’d exude had their broken worm bodies allowed.
And some days, I can fly like the best of them — ascending to new heights, always reaching, reaching, reaching just a little further than before. But it happens eventually. The crash. Because just as my fingertips begin to grasp the edge of hope, this cyclical anguish tethers my bountiful heart, and I am right back where I started, with scuffed knees and a bruised soul.
And this crash, it is never an easy descent. It hits at the height of flight because, you know, if you can add insult to injury, then why the heck not? And these scuffed knees, they buckle under the weight of all of the crashes I have endured. All of the Mother’s Days I’ve spent hunkered down in despair, mulling over the why and the when and thinking, “next year it’ll happen. Next year.” All of the times I have sobbed into my husband’s shoulder. All of the pregnancy symptom searches I have scrutinized because, yes, I’m nauseous… I think I’m nauseous… Am I nauseous?
And sometimes I wonder if all of this is worth it — to allow myself to ambitiously climb through the open sky only to endure that bitter descent. Because the fall, it always happens. Always. But hope keeps beckoning, and I, I acquiesce with dreams of the day that I will descend no more. Because caterpillars do get their wings eventually, don’t they?