The ugly bruise on my arm is evidence enough that my spirit has wandered again. It was happily skipping pictures in the shape of stones across an undiscovered lake when the empty shell of me collided with the door frame. And when I stumbled on the sidewalk, it had already strayed to watch dragonflies dart across a meadow and the dandelions release their wishes while the farmer’s cat looked on.
In the missing bits of conversation and the question’s repeat, I realized it has set sail once more, off to shores yet untraveled to meet lovers at sunset on silver beaches. Don’t be fooled by the blush on my cheeks. It isn’t the wine or the lingering burn from a dying sun — only my spirit sneaking back through the door with a too-wide smile, as if its absence were unnoticed by you.
It is an unruly and whimsical creature, my spirit. Tethered to its host by an ever-thinning thread, it drifts away on the slightest of winds, a lavender balloon rising until it is called back to take up residence inside this awkward flesh. It means no harm. Please do not take offense. I have tried to nail it down, but its gypsy heart is in love with the idea of roaming. And if one day I succeed in taming it, I fear it would only wither and die, like a fairy surrounded by nonbelievers whose hands refuse to clap.
© Tarrant Smith 2019