By Maria Alam

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I hope she lives in Switzerland,

not for the prestige, but for the peace.

I hope she hikes the mountains twice a week,

not to burn calories,

but to let the earth and greenery dissolve into her skin.

I hope she eats fruit from her garden,

vegetables she’s grown with hands that no longer tremble under pressure,

but dance with solace and joy. 

I hope the life she once only fantasized

is the very one she wakes up in.

I hope the air she breathes is green and kind.

I hope no one is rushing her anymore.

I hope the silence doesn’t scare her,

only heals.

I hope she naps in the arms of the mountains,

and wakes up beneath a sky full of stars,

living the dream she whispered to no one. Too ordinary, she thought, to count as a dream.

I hope she wakes up to the scent of freshly baked cookies and warm coffee 

and sleeps to the fragrance of flowers she has grown herself.

I hope she has finally built a nest of her own,

where the sound of turning pages blends into the scent of brewed coffee beans.

I hope she no longer feels the need to prove,

to push,

to perform.

I hope she is not surviving.

I hope she is living.

I hope she made it to her very own Paix.

And never looked back.