As usual, writing is my lone companion, the golf towel to absorb my tears, the faraway smile fading into Cheshire darkness.
I hate to admit weakness. I am emotionally stronger than the average, so it is a distant place to find where I can let myself be this weak.
I seldom ask, mostly as I don’t want to be refused & a bother or be considered a pest. And mostly, asking does no good since people do not understand that an offer can be a cry for a visit or a time not alone. They figure it’s an offer & they all have lives so it’s easier to just say “No” rather than, “Oh, hey, come over. Let’s sit on the porch & talk.”
I keep setting my walls higher. I’ll die alone & be relieved to do so. It’ll be the fallout of a life unexpected.
I used to think I’d be married & otherwise in a beloved state, a member of a pod. I make myself a desirable friend; but that’s just being loved at a distance.
Maybe I’ll – but I don’t even think I can do this – maybe I’ll just withdraw entirely to myself. No more dinners with others, no more asking for conversation or laughter, no more sharing.
I feel like this unwanted, underfoot, misshaped person. I feel like I’m a burden & a PITA. The way out of this feeling is to keep moving along in relationships, ideas & in writing.
So I sit with my real BFFs: a steno pad, a pen with a new refill & lovely writing point. And hey, fueled by tears.
Sad, isn’t it? Or? Maybe not. Could just be Fate it would have been so different & maybe could have been so except it’s where I’m at. Me & my words, closer than my shadow.
And I wish there were some other way to live my life. And it may change still. I sure do believe in miracles, so standing by for one isn’t a bad way to go, I guess.
If not for me, the life lived here would be enough
If not for silence I would have even less to say.
I might have been a wife, a mother, a lover, a friend.
Instead of this-that-is, a might-have-been of any other one of these.
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