Rays of sunshine are angling their presence through fronds of palm and dancing on my cheeks.  Warmed.  I don’t enjoy when the dance becomes too intense though.  The heat turns my focus to feelings of discomfort and away from the real thoughts prattling around in my head – the ones that aren’t even truly known to me until, somehow, they make their way onto the pages I write to find me.

I think that words and paper became my solace around twelve or thirteen.  Maybe even earlier but I have no physical proof of my heart smeared into journals prior to that age.  That was back when we were all sleeping on waterbeds and rollerskating under disco balls and we didn’t know that we should have been sleeping on Posturepedic mattresses all along to prepare us for the aches and pains that show up and linger as we age.

I was a professional wallflower in my younger days.  I always assumed it was just a personality deficiency that had been gifted to me… or perhaps a symptom of undiagnosed Asperger’s… but I am typically most comfortable when I am alone inside my head.  Writing my truth has always been easier than actually speaking it.

I feel the warmth of your kind heart and tender soul enveloping me.  There must be a goldfinch nearby.  Either that, or you have woven yourself into these rays of sun shining down on me.  It would be like you to do that in spirit – (you never were one to exhibit force or neediness) – peacefully inserting yourself into my words as they assume the persona of your sloppy-bordering-on-unreadable scroll.  You chose this perfectly reflective moment in which to rest your hand with the light touch on my shoulder, adorning me with that familiar pat-pat of yours.

I think you’re telling me it’s all OK.  You were always good at that.

 

 

 

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