I once was lost

"Why did you shut it down?" she asks.

I lean back in the chic lounge and study her face across the table over a leafy mojito. I see my own. And her father's. A high forehead. Her father's nose. The family cheekbones. The clan's sensitivity, imperiousness, pride etched into pursed lips and raised eyebrows. Her tongue is as heavy as my own; strength a part of her curved spine.

We are friends, she and I. Unmistakeable family. But we are inevitably friends, almost sisters. Shared blood, intellect, soul and words. Separated by both distance and time, by neither distance nor time. We have inherited the power of the pen from secret ancestors.

I take a sip from my drink. And for a long time we talk about identity and self, the public self and private self, professionalism and personalism, temptation and tact. I tell her why.

But it is not good enough. Nothing is good enough to hide the words.

I vacillate for a few more days between the delete button and inaction. Am I blocking out the world or a small piece of someone else's? Am I connecting with anyone? More importantly, am I still connecting with me? Why am I writing? Why am I afraid?

When she leaves on a plane two days later, I'm already consumed by work, the constantly buzzing scanner, the end of a draining week of emotional and physical floods. We didn't talk about those much.

It's been seven years. Before that, a lifetime. But the blood in our veins knows. Fear and resilience. And we fight the former. Welcome back, I want to tell her. And me. Welcome back.