A lovely one, the last one with my son. Great with the kids, more outgoing than I’ve ever seen him. Set free. Wig and girlie pajamas in the house. Amazing how quickly we got used to it. She did share her head cold, could my immune system be compromised? Can’t think why. And she had a meltdown. all those hormones. My God, she loves his girlfriend. As did I. What to make of that? How I hope the gains outweigh the losses. The losses. The losses…
My sister had a lovely birthday cake for me. It cracked right down the middle. Talk about a metaphor.
Some days I want to withdraw from the whole thing, forget about it, pretend that everything is what it was in September, that life is poetry, practice, the worst of it Paris burning. There are metaphors for change: the weather, clocks, aging, death, redemption. I’ve changed clothes, cars, homes, furniture, point of view, even sex drive. That was a big one, who expected that to vanish. I can’t find a metaphor for a son becoming a daughter, can’t find the language for that conversation. In my memoir, this chapter never existed.
Poetry is saving my ass.
From irritation to anger to grief to self-pity, the road is never long. My running shoes are worn. Could someone please alter the track? I told the two close friends. They were, of course, shocked, but PC and supportive. everyone is PC and supportive – and grateful it isn’t them.