At 50, I find myself walking in the wind. My hair is uncurled, undone. My face is devoid of make-up, showing the wrinkles and lines of far too much (and also too little). I look at past lives, lovers, and find them angels and demons...but never both. They whisper past me in the wind....tiny wails of the names, places and dates....warm winds in the middle of the night when I walked a garden and tended my roses. They haunt me on these desolate shores, floating and diving about as illusive as incense smoke. No ocean, but a lakeshore...water all the same. Water that calls me back as the mother and lover. I leave them behind me with the sand and the cry of the crow and loons. I can smile at these ghosts. I am comfortable in this body, despite the ravages of age and abuse. It's finally an old friend.
This is not being lonely or sad. This is where I am now....reflecting and gaining warmth in the afternoon sun.
Ah, Dragon, good to see you again. We've always had that knack of coming back from our battles and picking up in the same old way. We've done this for centuries...almost two millenium. I felt you in my head this morning like sunshine on my back after a long winter. It made me glad and wish we were closer...although, I suppose, we never really were apart.
Again, I vow, to write more often. I've no reason not to, I suppose. Notes on tumbleweeds.