Curves of the Narrow Way

Poetic prose on the road that bends unexpectedly

📷: me, 2025

 Where I have been is deep, rolling hills and fall leaves changing in mountainous trees. Drunk with hues of orange and the smell of geosmin. Gathered bouquets Leaking red into clear water, as the room erupts in raucous laughter of friends who know the deepest, darkest parts of me. 

And love me, anyway. 

Where I have been is a sacred circle and I feel my heart lean in, but in the span of a hitched breath I realize I have been waiting for familiar faces, floral skirts and bare feet. No pretenses. No pretending.

The farm dog wanders by, turns three times and settles in. She huffs a contented sigh and I feel it in my soul. A sorely missed comfort and reverberation in my heart. A moment drawing me out of myself, deeper into myself. 

The twinging, aching pain of where I have been. 
Where I am. 
Where I will never be again. 

Like a loud, trembling hum. Small static bursts of a frequency I know all too well, yet still shock with ferocity. In this exceedingly conductive, exceptionally fragile heart. Finite. Bound by time and broken by Providence. 

I did not know my heart had leaned out of the conversation. I did not know grief built walls without permission. I thought I brought my heart with me, into new places, new conversations. Into new laughs and jokes with new acquaintances. 
Entertained in mind, yet not present in heart. 

Here it is. The truth. For the first time in months, I sit in a circle of old, familiar companions. And the laughter finally reaches my eyes. The joy finally touches my heart. Not until its expansive presence do I feel the pang of its cavernous absence. 

But this old, familiar circle is where I have been. 
It is not where I am.  
And it is where I will never be again. 

Where I am, is pressing southward on a Sovereign wind. A winding way, with changes in seasons outpacing my rational reasonings, and I have long since stopped asking God, “Why?”

Where I am still carries the weight of bereavement of an unknowable future, desperate for a Divine breeze to kiss my face. Longing for the Higher calling to dull the aching grief. 

Where I am is driving on, building castles in the air out of words. They blow away too quickly to grasp. What will be left of me?

Where I am is in the midst of a map, still being meticulously drawn by His Loving hand. The road angles away up ahead, as it drops off behind. Farmlands and fields of cotton fade–all at once beautiful and permanently stained. 
The rearview mirror never quite captures the full detail of all we must leave behind. 

Where I am, the highways and the hours stretch on. My buzzing heart settles. The ache recedes as the twisting roads still meander. Reaching where, I cannot say—
Somewhere far and away. Sovereign, sandy paths dripping with moss. Trodden with Grace. 

Where I am is still with Jesus, who bats away the clawed hand of resentment which so easily grasps at my broken heart. Even now, He enfolds me in Loving arms and steadies my shoulders with Peace. I am not overcome. I am not alone. This Grace and Truth is sufficient for today. My mind quiets. I breathe in a salty breeze and keep going His winding way. 

In flattened marshes, stouthearted trees stoop, aggrieved from the coastal winds, yet I stand a little straighter. My heart thrums a little stronger. 
More sure of Who is with me. 
Where I am. 
Where I am going. 

Where I am is wondering if the crushing distance will always hurt. Maybe so. But the road curves on to the right, and I keep going,
And bend with it. 

—Anna