Strays

I did not mean to grow this way.  Old.  Grow at all in fact.  Wanted to spin in my upstairs room, in front of my mirror, my little girl dress flared out to here, the shine on my patented leather shoes still Easter white, clear of scuffs.  But did grow, or would, still will.

Take a stand.  Forty years later, well, fifty-two years to be exact.  Stop wanting so much.  Live off my essence, off my boiled down list of needs.  My irrevocables, my economy lesson.  Thank you Universe.  A suspicion that  that still fronted for my wants floating just behind that.  Always there is more to give.  A have charity chastise to my waistband, ‘there’s no give in these.”  I reach for another, choose again.

We all have our way, want our way now.  Still have not found ‘the’ way.  Not as in ‘The Way,’ my mother’s old New American Bible wobble fix way.

I am thinking about my friends, my enemies, my neighbors, my strangers, you, me.  A filmstrip of people who, fishing rod bait, were flung from parents too soon, our bodies into the world, had to make way, our way, not get eaten.

My grey hair is an inch and one-half long today.  I am into my elder place.  ‘Marilyn,’ beyond that.  Still, I wear makeup though.  My eyebrows bush in places.  They will not cooperate they say to me.  Fill ins forgotten, forever forward.  They want space.

For the space of the time it takes to make a lane change I look in the mirror at myself, am shocked to see that girl in there, a woman, looks back.  She is in there, me, her spaces not filled in either.  She is still alive.

Thank God for strays.

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