Some days when the sun doesn’t
come out in
the morning and the sky is dark and

grey, sometimes she just wants
to run out into
the storms with her arms out to the sky.

She wishes she’d be struck by
the lightning that
tickles the tops of the trees towering

above her and that her ashes
would fly out
over the winds to some faraway place.

There she would rise like the phoenix
in the stories her
grandmother told her about when she

was but a child and she would
be herself again.
Or maybe for once she’d be

someone else, one of those people
that have enviable lives.
The ones that were like her

mother, or the way she thought
her mother was
because she’d never really known her

in the first place.