The hardest part is behind me.

It began after so long a wait that it may not have been, with thoughts unwritten and opinions left unshared, in fear of reprisal and faltering of grammar, but also, the self-questioning and self-silencing borne out of conditioning and feminine politeness.

I sit at my desk late into the night when the quiet helps me to search for memories by retreating to a cocoon of the deep. The room's quiet nurtures shadows that have regained their colour. The softness of the carpet reminds me of walking on the grass while breathing air flowing in from mountains with icy stony ridges. Their jagged lines had formed a border between the land and the sky. Time had moved slowly. The winter sun had gently warmed my eyes as I watched the hills from a garden of roses and apricot trees planted by my father. I was twelve when the evening sky turned inky blue and moonless, as deep as the well's water.