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breeannaksmith

In Another Life

In another life 


I stayed on the Mormon mission. I stayed in the sweltering humidity of the Philippines and continued to preach to the people with their dirt floored homes and political signs as their walls. I continued to tell them they aren’t happy unless they have this certain type of God, one that only we could give to them, meanwhile they would feed me dinner even if it meant they didn’t eat that night. 


I stayed and married the one man I ever got the closest to feeling love for. I even had pride of “if anyone can marry a gay man in the church, it’s me.” 


I stayed in the false promises I was fed my whole life. My belly swollen quickly after our vows, as I served the sacred duty of being bred to breed. I kept my head down both to pray and also obey. 


In another life 


I ran far far away to a small town in Alaska where no-one knew my name, my history. I lived in a simple home but felt like royalty when I sat in the tiny reading nook, coffee in one hand, a book in the other, gazing through the giant windows of the sea of dense pines. 


I read often, wrote even more as I lived a life of solitude. One where loneliness would creep in every so often, but never overstay its welcome. 


My hands calloused from building my own oasis. My fingers calloused from touching scalding plates waitressing at the local bar. My heart a little calloused from going home each night alone. 


In another life 


I had the small apartment tucked away in the charming neighborhood. One that may be only 500 square feet, but felt like a mansion after traveling in the converted bus for weeks at a time. This apartment had over 75 houseplants in it, creating a sense of wild continuing indoors. This apartment served as a home base, a soft landing.


In this life, I was able to have it all. The string of a tether to roots - a life where I cooked the majority of the time, not because she expected it, but because I was happy to do it for someone who was so grateful every time. And there was something sacred about our ritual of me chopping or stirring at something while she walked in from work - a mutual greeting of excitement to see each other, and a sign of relief that we were home in each other. 


When I felt the call to take the bus away in order for me to get closer to me, she always encouraged it. 


Both of us knowing that missing each other is part of the sweetness of coming back home to each other again. 


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