"It was so real!" I told my daughter. Less than an hour awake, part of me was still in the dream, and I was grateful. I remained open to hear the message.

Many times in the past, the message moved through, gently blowing beyond the reach of my consciousness. My analytical, psychological approach, "thinking cap," and need to hold onto the storyline created more static than clarity. While racing to grasp my inner motion picture, my energetic vibration became more high-speed wobble than stealth. Thus, I'd unintentionally disperse the dream vibrations, sending them back into the ether.

She stood at the sink, washing her hands and checking her hair in the mirror. The frizz was back, frizzing without forgiveness, showing her true origins, giving zero fucks for all efforts otherwise. The natural-born kinks were more significant than the hundreds of dollars spent straightening her locks into whiteness and conformity — no amount of water on her hands could smooth or remove the traits of her lineage. Cue the self-loathing and the forced sense of belonging she'd spent two decades creating.

Triggers as catalysts for reclaiming stolen worth.

Beady-eyed, he smirks, his lips curling back from his bleachy-keen teeth; he is adorned in his vulgarity and crimes like the victor’s laurel wreath. Like a rat on the run with food, the state representative scurries away with pieces of women’s sanctuary. His words reflect utter indifference to decency, “it’s not my fault she was blackout-drunk and didn’t say no.” Criminal and bully, he’s a carbon copy of the boys-will-be-boys club of mediocre men who use their privilege to violate others.

I wasn't ready to receive the three zip-sealed bags you gave to me.

Your eyes reflecting intention and heartfelt affinity that your long-saved collection was essential for me to see. They held photos and artifacts of our story—not all, but mostly the best not the wounds, simply the rest.