When I was a child, there was a thief. I do not know how old I was. I do not know where I was. But he came into my room, steps light upon the rug, and stole from me my heart. Stole from me my soul. He stitched rocks in their places and, with a kiss upon my forehead, he left.

I did not notice the heaviness for many years. I did not notice how my body rattled as I walked, how others did not seem to carry the same weight. But I did notice the scars one day, criss-crossed over my chest, where he had wrongfully stolen what was not his. 

I wonder, sometimes, what I might have done without those rocks tying me down to earth. Would I have leapt for joy, felt butterflies, rolled down grassy knolls with those I did not know I would love come evening? Would I have bit my tongue as often as I did, would I have found the courage to say yes? Would I have allowed myself to go swimming, even if it was just to experiment? To see if I liked it?

I take the rocks out now, one by one. They are heavy, and I bleed. But I press on. A rock as often as I can handle comes from my chest. And I set it down, roll it away. Perhaps one day I will find the thief again. Perhaps I will find him and take back what was mine. But for now, maybe I will cultivate a new heart, a new soul, built in the remains of a rocky place.