Left Turn

At the intersection,
I could go right and head home—
home,
with its chipped mugs,
its scent of cardamom and caution,
its walls that remember arguments louder than laughter,
its comfort shaped like resignation.

The right turn meant
warm socks,
leftover curry,
the sound of the neighbor’s ceiling fan
whirring like a bored therapist—
predictable, unchanging.

The right turn meant
no surprises.
Which is another way of saying:
no miracles.

But the left...
ah, the left.

Turning left would take me
into a stretch of road
that my mother once warned me about.
The kind of road that doesn't show up on maps,
that eats at your shoes and feeds you sky,
that whispers things in languages
you forgot you knew.

Turning left meant
I wouldn’t know the name of the next town,
or the last one.
There would be signs, yes—
but not the kind you could read.
More like
a bird circling twice overhead
or a tree that bloomed only on one side
or a song leaking from a broken radio
that knows the name of your first heartbreak.

The left was not a road.
It was an invitation.
An ache dressed as a dare.
It was not about escape.
It was about becoming.

I hesitated.
The steering wheel trembled—
or maybe that was me.
A honk blared behind me
like time losing its patience.
But I stayed.
Paused.

Because isn’t that where all lives split?
Not in motion—
but in hesitation?

I thought of everyone who told me
to choose the road that made sense.
To build a life
with stable walls and easy grocery runs.
To love safely.
To trust what can be measured,
what comes with warranties
and fixed interest rates.

But I had also heard
the stories whispered in steam and smoke—
of those who turned left
and never quite came back the same.
Some came back with poetry.
Others with scars.
Some didn’t come back at all,
and became legends in someone else’s dream.

I turned left.

At first,
it felt like disobedience.
Like eating dessert
before the prayer.
Like writing a letter
with no one in mind.

The road curved like it had a secret,
dipped and rose
like breath before a confession.

The sky changed its tone,
as if it too had been waiting
for someone to notice
it wasn’t always blue.
The air smelled different—
not floral or smoky,
but like possibility.
Like something had just begun
and was pretending to be ordinary.

I passed a man
sitting on a stool
beside a fire that wasn’t burning
but humming.
He looked at me
and didn’t smile.
Just nodded—
as if to say,
“You’ve started.”

A field of mirrors stretched out
where cows should’ve grazed.
Each reflection
was not my face
but a version of me
from a life I didn’t choose.
One danced.
One wept.
One looked back at the intersection
and whispered,
“It’s not too late.”

I walked through them anyway.
Each crack in the glass
sounded like applause
or mourning—
it was hard to tell.

A woman with violet eyes
offered me a map
written in riddles.
“Where does it lead?” I asked.
“To the part of yourself
you’ve been avoiding,”
she said,
then disappeared
into a tree that smelled like salt and stories.

Time began to peel.
Minutes folded like origami.
I met a boy
who claimed he was my shadow.
He asked why I always ran from stillness.
I asked him why he always followed me.
He smiled.
“Because you’re worth following.”

I cried for no reason.
Laughed for the same.
The road did not promise answers—
only echoes.

I forgot where I had meant to go.
Home became an idea,
not a place.
A metaphor I hadn’t earned yet.

Eventually,
the road opened up
into a circle of stones
where a fire burned
with colors I had no names for.
People sat around it,
not speaking—
but I understood them anyway.
They made room for me.

And in that circle,
I remembered
that the point was never the destination,
but the becoming.
That left turns
aren’t always detours.
Sometimes
they are invitations
from your own soul
to come back to yourself.

I never turned back.

But I sometimes dream
of the right turn.
Of the couch that smelled like turmeric and comfort.
Of the hallway nightlight.
Of the predictability of 7 p.m. dinners.

I wonder what would’ve become of me
had I obeyed.

But then I wake,
and the sky outside my window
spells my name
in a language I now understand.

And I know—
turning left
wasn’t about rebellion.

It was
the only way home
I’d ever really know.

#Becoming #Poetry #LifeChoices #LeftTurn #SoulJourney #EmotionalGrowth #SelfDiscovery #MetaphoricalRoad #ChooseYourPath #TurningPoint