I look in the mirror every morning; scrub my teeth which feel so loose in my mouth these days. I brush my hair and convince myself I like its silver colour and sheen. I don't want to be dismal or decrepit, how can I hold back the years. The issues are less and less important as time passes.
Behind that tide comes the mystery, rising once more and coming back to soak up any energy lying about, as if there is nothing else left to do. That day has not yet come around, I can still distract myself with gardening and, until recently, walk Flynn, the dog.
Stories, like lives, never begin as we think they do. Behind every story of the person , who may or may not have lived it, there is a history. From this history I try to awake. It works for awhile; then I have to escape yet again. So often I castigate myself for this dwelling place that insists I 'write it down'.
After all my life has been full, wondrous and worthwhile. Something lingers; it will not be denied. The time of learning the skills to make it happen has passed, only the task remains.
I imagine a book I'm supposed to read, left open and upside down on the floor - gagged by the gray carpet. A red leather bookmark with a threaded bead on the end flops over the edge of the book near the back pages...and then something happens...