To be who I was, how I longed for that, as I
gazed at my reflection with eyes haunted and
flat. "You are not who you were," he has said
with a sneer; does he think if I was that
I'd still be here? Still, I have died and
come back without much of a fight, but I never got a chance to look into the light.
Maybe I am still that spirited girl and, when
summer comes,I may catch a wave, may ride
its curl. And who is he to say that I'm not
who I was; I'll find my smile again, I'll
find my own cause.

But all was near lost one day when
blindsided by fate, I hit that wall
and it was almost too late. Then, just as
the brink was so near and just when I was
sure I could stand no more fear, that same
strong arm that had caused me sadness and
pain but had also saved me before now and
again, pulled me back from the edge, in out
of the rain. And, once more, with a look
into eyes green as the sea, my Irishman made
me know that of course I'm still me.
Battered, beaten and somewhat worse for some
wear, his smile convinced me he would always
be there.