I’ve been having a hard time remembering the words to songs I used to know — it’s the same way with people and places I’ve wanted to go back to.
The older I get, the more things slip through my fingers. I don’t have the tenacity of a nineteen year old anymore. I can’t keep on breaking my own heart over gone, or forgotten. I spent a century being an island, a little bit longer being a marble statue — I spent several years after that being different kinds of birds.
Anything to avoid being a woman.
Because I didn’t want the spill. I didn’t want the hurt or heal. I wanted time to stand still. I wanted to keep things that couldn’t be kept, and I wanted people to hold me the same. But it’s not so bad here — hips and heart and change — it’s not so hard.
I let it go, all those things that wanted to be let go of — I don’t think of it as losing anymore; instead I tell myself I am being respectful to the small glory of my hands. Only the best for them.
Only the true.