Sitting here at the bar, reading Walt Whitman, alone.
Am I cool yet?
(No. No, I am not. To be clear: I am sitting at a booth, and I am drinking lemonade. It is sweet and cold, and I clutch at it with my too-long creature-fingers.)
Tomorrow I finish packing up the literal bits of this last life, and I move forward into the next one. And maybe this will also be the week of the new job, of this role that I covet, of all good, safe things.
These are the first notes of a new song, and I can only hum it for you right now, my dear. I am too scared to open my throat fully, I am so scared of what is going to pour forth from me when I finally do become unafraid. For now, my soft underbelly has to remain mine alone. I will expose it to you soon, it is marked on my calendar. Perhaps you will scratch it. I don’t know.
The song will go, I hope:
La la la new, safe, friendly streets to jog
Mmm the promise of the spicy mocha at the coffee shop on the corner
Ooh, baby there are so many free snacks at this new job, and the e-mail said that sometimes there are dogs here ooohhhh
Na na na na the sun is shining, and I will write us out of this mess
Hey hey hey I am worthy of forgiveness
So, I’m reading Walt Whitman at this bar, and here is the line that strikes me today, that pokes at my soft guts in this moment when my mouth tastes like sugar and lemons (just thought you oughta know):
I don’t know yet, but I am beginning to consider. Beginning to consider that this gangly, pudgy corporation of mine might be filled with goodness. That, yes, I make mistakes, and yes, I have hurt people, and yes, thoughts and actions of mine are selfish, are greedy, are unkind… But maybe.
I am ready to welcome you into my space, safe and warm and friendly. Maybe I will learn to make pasta.