I wish I could go back in time and be a flight attendant. But for only one reason. I would be back in Panama at the Siesta Hotel with Rex and I'd tell him how much I love him. But back then, as now, I was nothing more than a commodity, a need for him to use me.
I would have told him over and over again how much I loved him. Still, he would have gone back home to a woman he did not love so the children could have their Dad, so he too could be with them. But I write of the dust of ages and this doesn't serve me.
Now cradled again in the void, left alone by my Mother, by Rex and others, a new chapter begins, of writing, of surrounding myself with the gift of beauty, beautiful furnishings, beautiful music, art, literature, homes and especially beautiful friendships, one in particular whose entrance on the stage of my life has yet to be made.
More. I ask for more and within the blink of an eye, more comes. The world is awash with more. More laughter, more fun, more prosperity, more perfume from France, more soap from Santa Maria Novella in Florence, more Venice Simplon Orient Express, more great films, more currents washing the shore line at Tingler Lane.
More dogs too. Dogs who make me laugh and make me walk along Sombrero Boulevard. More books popping with excursions into new landscapes, driven by a mind once not allowed to go there, not allowed to speak the truth, the dead no longer alive inside my mind. Their truth was not mine anyway. So now my truth will out and in the same way musicians improvise their jazz.
It's time to deconstruct the old forms, the old cliches, the old dance, the way all of us really want to do it, namely our way. Tried and true is neither.