Cacophonous cadence

As stealthily as you brought her, you spirited her away

You never hid, never shied

You came in the front door and attacked me with words; soft words, sharp words, words that flowed with cacophonous cadence, words that drew breath from me even as they poured emotion into me

You sang a discordant song and dared me to join in the chorus,

and I sang, without accompaniment, a song I had never sung before

and as I became comfortable with the melody, you angrily changed keys.

The racket was deafening, and I responded in kind.

You answered with silence, feigning defeat

and you took her with you

my Muse.

Conan

I’m not the “cry on your shoulder” type. Anyone who knows me could probably count, on one hand, the number of times I’ve done that. That’s all about to change…
Went to the doctor today for a problem I assumed was not serious, but which had become really annoying. A nurse came in and asked what seemed like 100 questions, did a preliminary exam, related some interesting facts about the pollen count, and left with the promise that the Dr. would be right in.
About 10 pages of “Eat, Pray, Love” later, a very pale, very thin man rocking a blonde Conan O’Brien “do” entered the room with his very bony, very cold hand outstretched.
Again, we played 100 questions and he began his exam. He poked and prodded and manipulated instruments, until, satisfied, he turned and began writing feverishly in my file.
As he lay down his pen, he turned in his oversized black leather chair, and palms on knees, returned my diagnosis.
In reverently hushed tones he told me I was old. Yep, that’s right ladies, not yet out of my forties and I am officially old. Seems, as we age, the old tear ducts just don’t operate as efficiently as they once did, and the annoying redness of my eye is due to nothing more than age. This insult cost me $60.00.
You know, I started the day feeling pretty good. Thanks to my sister’s photography skills, and the assistance of my nameless, mostly faceless goddesses, I’ve lost about 20 pounds and counting. I’m wearing clothes I haven’t worn in well over a year, and, today, since I was feeling kinda sassy, I completed my little hippie outfit with a pair of corduroy Chuck Taylors. Trust me, girls, this is not the outfit you want to be working when you find out you are old.
So, now, I’m on my way to the opticians office to purchase a pair of eyeglasses since it seems some old people are completely unable to wear contacts.
I will stop on the way home and pick up a pizza for the boys and a really, really big bottle of wine, for me.
Tomorrow I will begin researching lasik!
I’m not going down without a fight!

Never

You are faceless, and, for all practical purposes nameless.
I have never buried my nose into the top of your head, or the center of your chest, or into the crease of your hip and inhaled, deeply, your essence.
I have never run my fingers over the roughness of your hands, or traced the lines of your face.
I have never heard you breathe, or watch you sleep.
I have never fed you.
I have never heard your laugh, or felt you cry and kissed the wetness from your lashes.
I’ve never felt the softness of your flannel shirt against my bare skin, or anticipated the sound of your footsteps.
But I know you…
And I care…

Weighing my options

For once in my life, I seem to be right on track. Having used up a good portion of my “40’s” and peaking around the corner at “50” one question rolls round and round my head. The neon marquee reads “Is that all there is?” Great song! Peggy Lee, I think.
Since birth, I have heard, “This is your one chance, make it good!”. True, it’s often an inner voice, but a voice all the same. A voice that sometimes screams louder than the one in my ear.
I read of women. True pioneers. Edna St. Vincent Millay, Gertrude Stein, and even Ellen Burstyn. Yes! Ellen Burstyn! What a life! A life filled with adventures created by a will to live and experience all. A life unfettered by conventions and restraint. Lived without compromise or apology.
And I am that woman. Deep down inside, squashed by years of other people’s beliefs, I am that woman. Gazing down that last long stretch of road, I see an opportunity, no, a mandate to break some of the bindings others would use to hold me. I understand the importance of filling my memory bank with experiences and adventures, that in my waning years will warm me when my bones are cold and my skin too thin to ward off drafts. I want to be the crone sitting in the corner of the rec room with Madonna’s smile playing across her lips. All the others, the ones who played it safe and lived it boring, will sneak glances in my direction and wonder “What did she do?” My derring-do will bring me wisdom to share with grandchildren and great-grandchildren who will pat my powdered arm even as they marvel at my saltiness.
The choices I make will benefit those unknowing of my plans. As we slog through every day in the same murk we slogged through yesterday, my spirt will lighten our load and I will know that there is sunshine at the end of my trench.