I don’t think there’s anything left inside me Sylvia. There’s nothing left for you to take.

Last Sunday I packed everything that made me up into medium cardboard boxes and I placed it all into that blue moving van. You knew I had to do it Sylvia. Everything was in the note I sent you.

Maybe, just maybe if you had grown a little faster you could have caught up with me, with my head in the clouds, seeing the world so differently and realising that nothing mattered the way I thought it had. But you were too busy with the dance studio and that stupid dog. I have no idea why we ever bought that dog.

So I’m stepping out, into space, or uncertainty. I don’t know what to call it but I’m going to make myself a promise (which I may break once or twice) not to look back. Not to think about us in that little apartment above the Florist. And I’m hoping that will be enough, to keep me strong enough, to do whatever it is I have to do in the next 12 months.

I bought a calendar for next year, and I wrote a question mark next to every date. And it made me feel freer than I have felt for so long I can’t remember. I felt like I was on my grandfathers farm and I was going to be a ballerina. Remember? I told you all about it. And no, nothing you say is going to change my mind. I’m taking my first steps now, and I’m going to keep looking at the horizon. Its what I was born for. I think.