The train pulled into the station
It was the beginning years
The days were not my own
Her, yanking my arm as we boarded
Me, following unsteadily down the row
Hers, the only seat available
Something to be shared
Something to be taken
The sounds of the engine and passengers
Giving me hope for more
My purpose and destination unknown

The train pulled into the station
It was the young years
The days were meant to be savored
Me, ravenous for freedom
Her, a haunting presence
Something to avoid
Something to push to the future
My seat by the window, roomy with possibilities
Giving me hope for more
My purpose and destination are mine

The train pulled into the station
It was the middle years
The days were lived for others
Me, dragging myself aboard
Her, a presence in a crowded aisle
Something to hide from
Something to question
The window frosted over, hiding the passage of time
My purpose and destination traded away

The train pulls into the station
It is the golden years
The days and story my own to reclaim
Me, climbing aboard, prepared and vigilant
Her, diminished but unforgotten
My seat fully my own
Some stories to be shared
Some spirit to be rekindled
The sunset out the window, guiding the autumn of my life
My purposes and destination lighting the open road ahead

I didn't see the forecast
The one that predicted my blank slate
I thought it would look different
I thought it would follow a life filled with family, children, memories
I woke up one morning
An empty space in the bed
A calendar free of appointments
An unexpected ache in my soul
A blank slate

I watched the sun rise
Bringing light to my past mistakes
Nothing to hide behind
My soul open for onlookers
I ******* shame
And I pray for nightfall

Sometimes, change is easy
It feels like trying on a new pair of shoes from a favorite department store
If the change feels good and fits, you move forward
You wear change like a badge of honor, a personal achievement
Then, feeling accomplished and joyful, with your chin raised a little higher, you let change enrich your spirit, a necessary transfusion to the soul

Sometimes, change is ugly
It feels like sticking bare feet into a thick  mud and wondering why there is resistance
You swing wildly at the fear, as if there was actually someone there
The possibility of change turns you into the victim and the aggressor, fighting tooth and nail to protect the now
Then, spent and weary, when your defenses are low, you let change break through, like water overflowing a dam

One day, I looked in the mirror
and saw my parent staring back

Was it the gray hair?
A face more lined and wrinkled?

Or, was it the sadness in my eyes?
The anger in my furrowed brow?

I stared harder.
Had I grown into the hero? The villain?

I blinked and my parent was gone

Where is the warrior?
Her fierceness a fading memory
Her hoarse roar the sound of past glory
Her doubts clouding once clear vision
Where is the warrior? She asks with a sigh.
When inside she hears a familiar drumbeat
The beat of a heart that wants more

So, while her roar may be softer now
Her battles evolved with age
She looks in the mirror and whispers
I am the warrior