Ink Stain's & Postcards...

I'm on Cork bound train, watching the rain. It's a tired kind of day. And so I let the train rock me like a lullaby, gentle and calm.

I arrive in Cork and hail a taxi. My taxi driver is full of charm and wit and it is a warmth that breathes into me.

I check into The River Lee Hotel. And I have no plans. It's even written into the itinerary...

But maybe the one thing that I need to do is sit and have a proper cuppa. And watch the river. Because for months upon months, I dreamed of that- through sleepless nights, and hard fought days, when I wanted to give up, when I couldn't move beyond fear or pain, or sickness- I looked at those pictures and that spot and I told myself, just hold on my darling, just a little longer now, just hold on. And I held tight-

I walk into the Wier Rooms and feel horribly out of place. But nonetheless, I ask for the terrace and I arrive and sit at a table. And I order tea. And I can't even process the transition of those nights into this day. And I feel the trickle of tears at the back of my eyes. When the server comes to check on me, somehow I end up sharing a bit of the heart behind this trip and she hugs me. And I needed that hug, it allowed me to both grieve and hope- it unlocked a door that I had not the key for. I sit for awhile with my tea and my hope and it fills me up.

And as I settle into my room, I write because it's what I do- and so this is my heart on this day, ink stains and postcards...

Ink stains

And postcards
That read, wish you were here
And she’ll snap the still frames of
The light between the trees
And the buildings that tell stories
About their stories
And the places where the land meets the sea
And the sunset in Africa
And the rain in Ireland
And the sunrise in California
And all the miles in between
She’d take a picture of them all
To fill up her soul
And let hope overflow
That somehow, we are still always, only, ever meant to be
Dust to dust
Broken but,
Made beautiful in the hands of
The one who made the stars
The one who created symphonies out of every beat of every heart
The one who set the sun on fire in the sky
The one who hung the same moon to whom she still whispers goodnight
Goodnight-
And she is ink stains, aching fingers, fragile hands
And postcards, born of words from her kaleidoscope heart
And she’ll write, I miss you
And she’ll say, I wish you here
Because it’s not the same without you
And she’ll smile when she signs with ink
I’ll be home soon
All my love my dear
And she will wander through the world
Marveling at the places where her feet would touch the earth
And she’ll be ink stains
And postcards
And still frames of wonder
That remind her to chase after
Wonder
And to look for the places where the light shines through
And for the beauty within ordinary days
And for the secrets buried
In every long, forgotten corner
Waiting for her so that they might be discovered
And she will remember that she was made for
Flying
And ink stains
And postcards
That hold dreams bigger than the ocean
And the promise that one day
She will find herself brave enough
To walk on the water
And her soul will be painted
By ink stains
And postcards
Her ink stains
And postcards.

-Jillian Nichole, ink stains and post cards...