Freedom in the Ash
I run my fingers through the ash, watching as the fine gray dust trickles through and forms wisps of clouds above the blackened ruins.
Ruins. Is that really the right word?
Ashes and ruins are words that describe the end. Everything comes crashing down, they say. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The sunlight catches the wisps of ash, glowing the papery flakes and dust to a golden hue. A gentle breeze blows into the remains, stirring my hair and causing the finest flecks of ash to dance along the ground.
In many people’s minds, these crumbled ruins mean death.
But to me, they are hope. The only thing ruined is the confinement that flickered away with the flames.
This old house is burned down. Never again will I be trapped in its doors.
I didn’t start the blaze which crumbled the house. I wasn’t strong enough to cause it to be torn apart like this.
But I let it happen, embracing every moment as it fell around me. This house that I lived in all my life—this place I was trapped in, unable to escape—is now destroyed.
This ash, floating in the breeze, is now free from the structure of the wood which confined it to its shape.
This fresh breeze hits my face for the first time, reminding me that this ash is like me. I can leave this place.
Just as the sunlight glows in the wisps of the ash, the light of the sun reaches me now. It is warm and full of life.
Where others see death, I see new life.
I let the last of the ash fall through my outstretched fingers and stand up. I don’t know where I will go, but it will be far from this place.
Like the ash, I have been freed.
Based on prompt: Ash