Boston's home, but this is where I came from. (Escaped from.)
Flight was blessedly uneventful - first uneventful flight we've had in ages. JetBlue. Yummy snacks, XM radio.
Tonight, we have a big family dinner (party of 14) and go see Wicked. (Elayna knows every word of the soundtrack by heart, but this is the first time she'll be seeing it.) Tomorrow, at least five of us are getting haircuts/color... then dinner at Elayna's favorite restaurant.
Sunday? My sister's engagement party. Where I'll see a lot of people I haven't had to see since... well, since I was Elayna's age. I stopped living at home full-time when I was just a year older than my daughter is now. Huh. They'll look at her and see me...
I wrote a bit on the plane.I've had a poem about chronic pain trying to come out. (Why poetry all of a sudden, after half my life without? I'm not a poet. Go poke holes in someone else!) I say "trying" because it's been surfacing at night, after I've taken my meds, the occasional lull between sedation and sleep,when I lie awake beside Adam and think that this is the night the meds won't work. (And then they do, immediately.It's like washing your car to summon rain.)
This is part of it.
It tears you apart, its hooks rending you. It pulls the joy from you, dragging it out, catching it on hope and fear, a tangled mess.
Me, I streak my hair all the colors of fire.
I paint my eyes with glitter and hang seashells from my ears.
I wear skirts that make my walk (when I can walk) a dance, striped socks, shoes with flower-wreathed skulls.
I form a net to keep the joy in.
I catch it on my wild curls and woven silver and the swirl of my skirt.
And my eyes, my shoes, my dance - it makes you smile.
It gives you some small measure of happiness.
I catch it, the reflection of your joy, like the light of the Moon.
Perhaps I can make a spell of my own
and sing my restoration.
So. Yes. I'm here.