The Next Chapter

What is my next chapter
after the farm is sold
away from family?

What’s next
when I look through the dining room window
at land in
someone else’s hands—
someone who has yet to spill
tears in the fields,
blood on the soil?

I must loosen my grip, I know.
Breathe.
Stay present.

What do I see now?
What do I hear in this moment?
Right here. Right now.

But my mind jumps to the
void
of the next chapter,
its dangerous mystery.

I’ll be fine.
I repeat this a lot.
But this mantra is neither
grounded and present
nor leaping forward.
It’s a weak prayer.
Sometimes it’s a lie.

I’m in the liminal space.
Here,
lies breed and multiply,
fester and spread,
ooze and sink deep into the soil—
a worrisome poison
mixing with the tears from my last walk through the field,
dancing like mercury around the blood from my wounded heart.

I’m in a liminal loop,
I repeat this a lot:
I’ll be fine.
But this mantra is neither present
nor leaping forward nor a prayer.
It’s a lie.

I’m not sure how to come round.

I think it’s here on the page,
here where—
instead of fretting over
my next chapter—
I focus on Eleanor’s,
on the stroke her life arc deserves,
on the story that will land on wounded hearts
and help them heal
to face their next chapter.

©Pennie A. Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2026