Epilogue
The meteor that was my life was falling at break-neck speed, its aim for the center of the world when something stopped it—the jarring tug of inertia when a car comes to an abrupt and violent halt.
I felt my soul ricochet within myself, like when the slamming of brakes causes everything to hit the windshield.
The heat, the smoke, the fire faded away, and in its place the cold, icy familiarity of New York in November bit at my goose-bumped skin.
My limbs still heavy and tired, but a coolness at my chest brought forth a serene feeling of peace, like the stillness of a tranquil lake.
Or the feeling of standing backstage before a performance, the rustling of movement from other actors and crew members hustling about around me.
But then there is the single spotlight on the stage, the quiet anticipation from the audience as I take my first few steps and begin to sing the first few notes.
Hope. It felt like hope had caught me just before the implosion, like a bird swooping in at the last moment, catching me before I fell in such a way that I would never be able to get back up again.
I still had hope.