I’m like a cat—I’ve lived three
lives so far, or maybe more. I grew up sweet and pure, kind and quiet; then I
flew away across the vast country and became a person who had shucked off that
religiously heavy (but happy) upbringing, listening to harsh music and seeking
hard thrills, I married a man and had twin babies; then I was set free from him
and found a soft and welcoming place to land, safe and warm with my True Love.
I lived on the rocky, harsh coast of Maine; I felt agoraphobic in the wide-open
plains between the hulking, great mountains of Utah; and after a brief respite
in the lush green and white-capped blue of my Maine, my Love whisked me off to
perch in a little house on Iowa’s prairie. Is that six lives? Maybe four. I
just know that it all feels like three lifetimes, or three tracks on an album…three
volumes in the Encyclopedia of Me, three colors of my rainbow. I am Me, but
that girl from Westbrook Street looks like a stranger from here, and that young
woman losing and finding herself amid the mountains and red rock deserts seems
like Me, but I can’t quite reach her anymore…this fat and happy matron that I
am looks like a stranger, often unwelcome.
I'm supposed to be studying for finals.
So I jotted that down.
