A while back, I wrote about the fact that I would start writing more things that cross people’s lines. For anyone close to me, you already know that I don’t have a problem with cursing or other objectionable language – especially if such language is creative. Everything is context.
It is probable that people who don’t know me well will have a problem with me not having a problem.
The reason this fascinates me is that I’m the same person in that respect I’ve been most of my adult life. Acknowledging that my comfort zone is far wider than other people in no way negates whatever version of me that you hold in your head. One of the great realizations in our lives is to come to understand that each person in our lives has a different version of ‘us’ inside their heads. There is little we can do to alter that version of us.
If you think I’m the kind of person who doesn’t curse, you’re wrong. I adjust my audience accordingly, especially if I know that someone has a problem with coarse language. It’s a delicate balance that requires a bit of ‘squish’ on everyone.
Likewise, my turn of phrase goes directly to the idea of paying for the consequences of our words and actions. The original idiom implies misbehavior or tomfoolery that comes due.
My turn on the old cliché goes a step further. I don’t mind paying the reasonable consequences of something. Paying more than reasonable becomes onerous. From that was born my extrapolation of the phrase to be both humorous and accurate.
Don’t make people pay more than is due for errors, words, or deeds. . .
“I don’t mind paying the piper. I just don’t want to blow him too.” . . .
My decision to visit downtown for food was a stolen moment, one both spontaneous and light. I wonder if coincidences happen or if serendipity exerts unseen control.
Downtown was an eerie place that afternoon around five. Dimday is a word that describes the point when light surrenders. Winter came like a blanket to a place unaccustomed to it. For those who relish the greyed out quiet, it was beautiful. You can count me among them. Sunlight brings joy, distracted and widened eyes to witness the carnival of our exposure; winter commands reflection and thought.
I parked a street away, around the block, and walked along the broken sidewalk, heading toward one of the rejuvenated eateries along the old street. A mother with her young son crossed near me. She was pleased to hear me greet her in Spanish. Crossing the street, I noted that all the colors, though subdued, seemed to be more vibrant in the odd and fading light. Everything was punctuated by the neon lights at some of the businesses. It was a place I would have preferred to linger in, observing. As I walked behind the mother and her son, entering the crosswalk, I looked up and made eye contact with the driver in his truck, waiting for us to cross. I waved and smiled. To my surprise, the man smiled back, waving like an old friend.
Entering the restaurant, I recognized him immediately at the bar, with a large beer, and a plate of food in front of him. He seemed diminished in comparison to my memory of him. Our memories add armor and soften the complexities that come alive when we revisit those who sometimes stroll in the hallways of our minds. The hardened memories I had of him didn’t align with the older man sitting there.
I ordered and picked up my food. On a whim, I stopped and asked him if he remembered me. He said my name immediately when I pulled down my mask. Not that “X” should be unusually hard to recall. He would remember me for reasons other than my peculiar name, though. I told him that the past was behind us, somehow communicating through intonation that it was indeed true and not a pressing issue between us. Because I’m emerging from my cocoon, I moved closer and made eye contact with him. We spoke as if the past happened to other people. I felt the stolen moment transform into a lemon moment.
My feet, already light and uncaring from the other-worldly light and atmosphere, lightened further as I exited the eatery. I left a piece of me back there, with him. I know my presence lingered with him. Whatever animosity previously prevailed, it dissipated there. I already knew that his behavior so long ago would now be mostly categorized as an interesting story – and stripped of its power.
And that the last year has given me a piece of myself back to experience it.
“If you can’t shake the can, you can always shake the skillet.” – X
I resurrected this phrase of mine today for someone’s social media post. They referred to J-Lo and Adam Levine’s Super Bowl performance last year, implying that if they looked like J-Lo, they’d be out there shaking their tailfeathers too. It’s a bit ridiculous, given that the people involved are attractive and know how to smile. (Hint: it is the smile and enthusiasm that galvanizes other people’s attention. Turn the smile and enthusiasm toward another person and you have the only successful recipe for convincing someone you are interesting and interested.)
I’d also like to mention that it is a bit weird to think that they’d shake their tailfeathers like J-LO if they were as attractive. It would be the same act, except with the perception of desirability or a feast for the eyes. The act itself? The same. Their claim in some way that’s hard to pinpoint dismisses the observer’s ability to find a wide range of people to be attractive. If you think there is a single standard for beauty, you’re wrong. And if you think that people can’t look at your defects and find something worthwhile, you are doubly wrong. People forget that a defect is not a defect to everyone. Many men find J-Lo’s most notorious physical asset to be unattractive. As for Adam Levine, he is a beautiful man. But there’s a lot about him many women dislike. In both J-Lo’s and Adam’s cases, their wallets are beautiful too – which helps alleviate many of the issues with their appearance. That is exactly what a smile, attentive ear, and other subjective things bring to the table. There is no single standard.
The quote goes directly to the heart of using what you have.
For those with sublime inclinations, it also could be used as a way to say, “Show love through food.” Though food is a necessity that sustains us, anyone who doubts the intimacy of preparing food for someone you love is a fool. It is an expenditure of time and energy, resulting in the simple pleasure of enjoying the food you need to live. It is magic to take a mundane task and add a dose of love and appreciation to it. As you get older, you find yourself wondering if ALL the true moments are hidden in plain sight like this.
The reason I wrote the phrase originally was to remind people that all of us have our peculiar likes, dislikes, fetishes, and inexplicable things that ignite us. Bald? Big nose? Scars? Thin? Heavy? Big hands? Small hands? High voice? Low voice?
No matter what it is, someone appreciates it.
It bothers me when people forget that their familiarity with their own perceived defects blinds them to the fact that someone else might appreciate them – and especially their alleged defects or faults.
You shake the can, or you shake the skillet.
Use what you have. Pivot. Be enthusiastic about the ‘you’ that you bring to the world. That’s worth all the money in the world.
It is in the act of realizing that you bring something to the table that makes love, life, and happiness possible.
No matter who you are, you can shake your can or skillet.
And…
If you show attention and enthusiasm, most defects are rendered invisible.
Stop being in a rush to tell people you’re not attractive to someone – or a lot of people. You have no idea.
I don’t always succeed at looking the other way or being the person I should be. Being thinner and having more confidence brings unexpected problems. I also tend to sometimes follow a thread or story just because I’m curious. Not because I have an agenda.
Today, I was at a business drinking a double shot of espresso. Obviously, I had to pull my mask down for a second. Espresso via a straw is lunacy.
No other person was within 20 feet of me. It’s important to note that several people in the facility had no masks, wore their masks improperly, and some were employees of the facility. I’ve had both covid shots. I also tend to tune out paying attention to those who don’t wear their masks or wear them properly. A couple of weeks ago, at Walmart, a man got furious at me, because he was obviously spoiling for a fight about not wearing a mask. I had not even noticed he didn’t have one on when I acknowledged him and said hello. He was looking for a fight.
Part of the social contract during the pandemic is to avoid being a maskhole in either direction. Truthfully, the safest course of action is to avoid going out. Engaging with those who don’t wear masks is a fool’s errand that will fill your day with argument and stress.
I don’t do it. And though it’s been that way for me for a while, I usually fail to notice whether someone has a mask on or not.
As I pulled my mask down to finish my espresso, an employee approached me. I made eye contact with her. And said hello. To my surprise, she shouted, “Sir pull your mask up!” Which I was already doing as she shouted. Keep in mind that she walked past several people making no attempt whatsoever to wear their masks or wear them properly.
Suspecting she was having a bad day, and also suspecting that me making eye contact is what pissed her off, I locked eyes with her as she passed and shook my head laughing at her. Which really pissed her off more. She wisely kept walking. Also, I was seated. Had she followed her own trajectory, she would not have violated social distancing.
Walking around, I observed people and realized more people than I thought weren’t wearing masks properly. Especially employees. Then I noticed the pissy employee who shouted at me was standing there with her mask down talking a foot away from another employee. I walked up within 10 feet and said excuse me. And then reminded both employees that social distancing and proper mask etiquette were required at all times without exception for employees at the facility. And that hypocrisy was not a good color for an employee to be displaying openly. I smiled, wished them both a good day and walked away. Laughing, of course.
One of the employees cursed at me and called me a son of a b****. I won’t argue the veracity of that. My mom was guilty of the charge. I turned and gave them the thumbs up and walked away.
I know walking up and being smarmy and snarky like that wasn’t the right thing to do. But I also know it wasn’t the wrong thing. And if it results in both employees not being assholes to the people they’re supposed to be helping, my transgression is certainly lesser than theirs.
After observing several other employees engage in similar behaviour, I went and asked to speak to the customer service manager. The employee did not want to help me. I told her I would wait as long as necessary and to not stress. She tried to do everything she could to encourage me to bug off or to explain to her what the issue was.
She looked even more confused when I explained to her that in the interest of time and efficiency for both the business and myself, it would be easier to proceed without needless repetition. I thanked her.
The purported manager approached. I showed her my covid vaccine card and ID and explained what happened.
I tried to avoid identifying the employee. And I certainly did not tell her that they had cursed at me. I wanted her to know that employees were sending mixed messages and causing anger issues needlessly.
She was perplexed when I told her honestly that I was talking to her only to see what her genuine reaction was. While standing there, I got more and more amused my how she was staring at my awesome women’s floral jacket. Her body language and demeanor told me she didn’t care about what I was saying.
And that’s okay. Customer service is a thankless job.
I told her that the objective of me talking to her, other than to observe a reaction, was to remind her that the rules are there to be enforced or not. But to watch out for hypocrisy.
I don’t know what my demeanor was saying to her, but she finally asked me, “Who are you?”
I told her I could be anybody from anywhere. But most importantly that I’m a human being with human reactions. And that employees are no different than customers in a world where we’re all equals. And to be kind, attentive, and happy.
I left her scratching her head. She thought I was somebody, so to speak.
I’m writing this post on my phone. I know I’m probably not capturing the nuance or communicating my points clearly.
All this started simply because I made eye contact with an employee. That’s weird. Weirder than my awesome floral jacket.
I still surprise myself forgetting that danger is relative. And that taking measures to be safer often results in greater danger. Most of the things that harm us drop out of the clear blue sky. Often literally, as my life will attest.
A few days ago, I arrived home to see that my sister-in-law was parked in the driveway. She drives a truck and isn’t the best at navigating the available space. Because I don’t obsess about such things, I parked in the street in front of my house. If you’ve forgotten, our neighborhood is incrementally becoming a parking lot. I knew it would be a worsening problem as the neighborhood aged. I let neighbors park in front of my house as a courtesy. I try to be aware of traffic, given that visibility is often blocked in both directions. People speeding make it a certainty that one day I will be smashed as I leave the house.
A little later that afternoon, I planned to leave. As I walked across the yard, I watched a young Latina woman exit the house directly across the street. She saw me walking to my car. I got in and noticed that she was going to back out.
I decided to wait, to give her a chance to more safely back out without being concerned about my movement. I could have gunned it and swung backward and into my own driveway; again, I was being safe. People get distracted when leaving. A couple of the neighbors use someone leaving as an excuse to pop halfway out the front door and shout long instructions or admonitions at those leaving.
As she backed out, for a second I thought she might hit me. Realizing that was absurd, I decided not to honk my horn. She kept coming. Before I realized it, she had backed into my car, toward the back end. My car rocked with the impact.
It was at that moment I hit the horn. I’m a genius like that.
How she thought she had enough room to make such a lazy turn out of the driveway is anyone’s guess. How she ‘forgot’ I was there in the .5 seconds since we both walked out is another guess. Since we are all human though, there are a million possible reasons she had such a monumental brain fart. I’ve had them, too. It’s wise for me to never forget it.
To my credit, I got out of the car laughing, especially when I saw the fright on her face. When I spoke Spanish to her, she was quite relieved. “My husband is going to kill me!” she said. Her left back bumper was caved in considerably. Mine wasn’t. It was popped in a bit with a lot of scratches and cosmetic damage. I looked hard at it and said, “No police, no insurance. The man who lives at the house you’re visiting should be able to pop yours out without breaking the bumper. If something else comes up, you know where I live.” I thought she was going to run and hug me. The relief on her face was obvious. “Cars are just transportation for me. No one was hurt and the car will drive exactly the same. We’re good.”
I could see the reluctance on her face to accept the fact that I was just going to laugh it off and let it go. She finally did, though. She left happy.
In one respect, I’m glad for the accident. It reminded me that my initial reaction wasn’t one of anger and that I’m still the same person. I WANT to always be that person. It is the ideal ‘me’ that I hold in my head.
I don’t want my car to be banged up, but safety, people, and keeping a calm outlook trump it all. I made that woman’s day. It could have been much, much worse for her.
I dropped by the Salvation Army store after work. It was the location that I would choose last if I were going for a better selection. As it turns out, I was completely wrong. Time hasn’t been kind to that area of Springdale. I lived near there more than once and my head and heart have many memories of the area.
I found a suit coat immediately. Because I’m much smaller now, I picked up the one I liked. And it fit. It complements my favorite vest, too. I promised myself that when I lost weight, I was going back to my eclectic (weird) way of dressing. Until today, I bought my other ones new. For a combination of reasons, suit vests and coats are more difficult to find.
I’m not sure if I will have another pair of pants with one leg altered to end mid-thigh and the other full-length though. I might. Years ago, the seamstress looked at me like I was crazy when I told her I wanted one leg to be mid-thigh shorts and the other full-length leg. She did it, though. If you’re picturing me conducting a series of shenanigans to catch people off guard, yes, you’d be right.
Today, I went around the long coat rack, with a motley assortment of quality, colors, and styles. My eyes went directly to a dark coat with a set of vertical floral designs. Without hesitation, I knew it was the coat for me.
I walked over to the cracked mirrored column and twirled around. Two Latina women watched in amusement. They were a little startled a few minutes later when I spoke to them in Spanish. Is the coat really for you, they asked. Heck yes, I told them. We all laughed.
Looking closer, I realized that the buttons were on the wrong side. And that it was clearly in a section for women. I picked it up and tried it on. Great fit.
And one of the large front buttons was missing.
Sold!
In another admission, I don’t currently own a ‘real’ winter coat.
But now? I own this fabulous floral coat, one which clearly indicates what I’m all about.
I’ll leave it to you to decide what that might be.
It was barely noon on an unassuming Tuesday, under a bright January sky, one warring with both sapphire and translucent clouds, in front of a store where passersby failed to notice that a moment was within their reach if they’d only pause, appreciate, and listen.
Almost no one took notice. Each hurried past, taking sideways glances at the older busker with his guitar cradled in his hands, the case propped open on the ground adjacent to the bench on which he perched.
Entering the store with my attention diverted, I didn’t pause. The musician was silent upon my entrance. My mind swirled with the details of what might interest me.
As I exited the store with my cart, the air filled with chords and a broken voice singing simple words. It’s hard to mimic the simplicity of a simple melody, especially when the voice accompanying it has walked countless miles and endured unimaginable heartache. We all recognize such voices. While we might appreciate the songbirds who sing effortlessly, it is difficult to deafen our ears to a voice that adds gravel to what most of us find in our hearts.
I walked the long parking lot, almost to the outer perimeter abutting the access road. The busker’s voice receded to a whisper behind me. I threw my scant purchases into the car and walked back. Giving the musician time to finish his song, I handed him $20 and asked if he knew any Merle Haggard. He sheepishly said he didn’t, which surprised me. Merle’s voice accompanying his would have been akin to walking into an old country church to find the place filled to the rafters with song, the kind any voice could join without embarrassment.
I told him, “Surprise me.” And he did.
I walked around the column and wall behind him and leaned against it as he played. It wasn’t Merle. But it was more. As the song ended, he tentatively leaned around and said, here’s one I wrote called “Ball and Chain.”
As people entered and exited the storefront, as they drove by and looked in our direction, the older man sang his song. And then another, one probably chosen because of my initial request.
As he played “Horse With No Name,” I realized I never thought of the song that way before. As sometimes happens, I heard the song for the first time through the man’s voice. As the chords diminished and the strings went quiet, I walked over and handed him another $20. “God bless you,” he told me, making eye contact. I could tell he genuinely meant it. “God bless you, too,” I told him – and not reflexively, either.
Though you might not understand why, I confess that there were tears in my eyes as I pivoted and walked away.
A took a piece of the sapphire sky with me as I left, tucked away as a memory I know I will retain. I looked across the expanse of the parking lot and saw the man singing another song. He probably wondered who I am and what my story might be. I’m a man with no name – but a lot of moments and memories.
A week ago, I admitted my goal shifted to reaching 168 lbs. I’m chunking that again. My new goal is 160. That is what success does: it stains other areas with the desire for more.
In the last week, I went to 175, a weight I always imagined as something wildly desirable but impossibly difficult. I haven’t weighed less than 175 since after high school.
Losing weight is supposed to be more challenging with age.
I guess it is. I just wouldn’t know.
In 3 months, I dropped over 50 lbs. It’s not the best way, but fighting from the middle ground would have been another failure for me. Lucky for me, this time followed an episode of realization. Absent that realization, and this wouldn’t have happened. I still don’t expect people to ‘get it.’ After explaining it a few dozen times, it’s this: I saw myself as thin and also pictured that it was ‘the’ me I should have been my entire adult life. I couldn’t see myself making poor decisions that led me away from the vision of that life. So far, it has been entirely sufficient. That ‘me’ in the indefinite future continues to free me from the pangs of willpower.
It was also in that moment that I realized that despite biting my nails for 50+ years, I didn’t do that anymore, either. It’s a shame I didn’t visualize being a millionaire in that moment.
I still can’t figure out how to write a book and make millions.
“Have an LSD trip without the LSD and just do it” would undoubtedly result in a lawsuit. “Don’t put stuff in your mouth” is another possible book title. (You have to appease the vulgar-minded, too.)
Today, I watched a naysayer’s eyes as he realized that I don’t possess superpowers or anything he doesn’t. Previously, he preferred to snark at me. Now, he is considering finding himself at my age and being overweight. “It’s all choices,” I told him. “For most of us,” I added, being reminded of what a friend reminded me of a couple of weeks ago. “So what if you fail. Each day that slides past is another day that you won’t know the answer.” And I offered to help him figure out a way to do it. “Choose your hard,” I challenged him. I don’t expect my system to work for everyone. But a modified version of it will work for a hell of a lot of people.
I might not have mentioned that the one thing I’ve tried all year is to ensure that I consume enough fiber, both in food and through supplements. Though you might not believe it, I get my RDA through eating. I take fiber supplements to ensure I do. While I can’t know with certainty, the fiber seems to have worked wonders for me. I mix both psyllium and gummy fibers. Find a mix and diet of high-fiber foods that work for you.
And because I mention this in every post, every bit of my huge weight loss came through diet. No gym visits, no costly supplements, no specialty drinks, and nothing outside of my usual scope of living. While my job is very physical, I would still have realized a significant weight loss if it weren’t. I’ve stuck to the idea that it is unwise to start a habit you can’t continue for as long as you live. If not, as soon as the practice stops, the benefits stop, too.
I like to imagine surviving the last few months at almost 230. I can’t. I’d be on statins, blood pressure medication, and almost certainly facing some calamity with my feet or knees. Taking 50+ lbs off of them rescued me. I don’t want to think about my cardiovascular system, especially against the backdrop of this pandemic. Stress? Forget about it?
I’m almost at my statistical weight. Soon, I will have to turn to my next goal: don’t be a jackass. That one’s going to take a lot of work.
It’s all lemons.
Choose your hard.
Whoever you are, if you want to do something like this under your control, please do. Start today, in the smallest way. Your life is sweeping past you. You are not trapped in the prison of your previous decisions. Those choices and those years cannot be recaptured. It’s gone. Stand up. Embrace. Try. And try again if you fail.
I told the two initially hesitant young people, “Lunch is on me. No, really. No, it’s okay. Just say thanks and have a great day!” The young man said, “Well, okay, thank you!” as a smile almost certainly formed on his face. The young woman with him just widened her eyes in surprise and nodded. She was so demure that she may have spoken – and her voice was so faint it might not have pierced the fabric of her mask. I stepped up to pay for their food and tip and then ordered my food. The cashier got tickled that I tipped on my bill, too. They thanked me again as I walked past to wait for my to-go order. It was a Lemon Moment, one that lightened my beleaguered step.
As I left, even though my right knee still hurt, I hurried down the sidewalk and across the crosswalk, barely recognizing the backdrop of discomfort. The sun was on my back and face and my arm was laden with delicious and healthy food that I would certainly enjoy.
I stopped at the mailbox on the way home. A van was parked in front of the community boxes. As I stepped up to use my key, a voice said, “Hey Pelón!” (He’s Latino and we always speak Spanish as our preferred language. He has much more personality in his native language, too.) I turned to see an old friend smiling at me. We once worked together. The job was often grueling and thankless but many friendships were forged there. He lives in the same neighborhood. In fact, the day he came to see about buying a house, it was me who introduced him to the overall pros and cons of choosing a house here – before he had to suffer the presence of a salesman who didn’t speak Spanish and had no discernible sense of humor. My old friend is moving for a variety of reasons, some of which don’t reflect well on the area. We traded several laughs. Out of left field, he casually told me he has a specific type of cancer. He caught it early and he’s stoic about that sort of thing anyway. Through the laughter, I felt terrible for him. He is a hard worker and left his other job so he could enjoy life more, something I mentioned to him often when we worked together. In the middle of simplifying his life, cancer knocked on his door. Still, we laughed.
I forgot all about my knee for a moment and whispered a word of thanks to the universe. Not because the fickle finger of circumstance chose another, but because in this instance, the person afflicted did not take his selection as an indictment about life. He still laughs. Undoubtedly today – and always.
The food was indeed delicious. The moments, though? Sublime.
Meeting my sister answered so many questions. Not all of them, though. Expecting complete answers at any stage of your life is a denial of the fact that as we change, the same answers can ring hollow or fail to give us satisfaction. We often don’t understand our motives or what led us to those choices, even regarding our own lives. Usually, the simple answer is “nothing.” You might be comforted by realizing such a thing. Many people are uncomfortable with the idea that our lives might be a game of pinball, with our choices volleying us across an almost random field. Careful observation of other people’s lives tends to reinforce it, though.
Isn’t it strange that we stridently ask and demand explanations and answers from those who preceded us, even though we well know that there may not be a reason that falls blithely to our hearts?
When we’re young, we falsely believe that the adults and people in our lives somehow have a magic formula for safety and love. Growing up exposes us to the harsh alchemy of people being people, making mistakes, and quite often winging it. In my case, I should stop surprising myself with revelations. At this point, almost any combination of things may be valid. It took me until I was 52 – and in the face of constant argument – to find out that my Dad not only had fathered another child but that he had done so with a girl much younger than he and from a different background. For those of you who understand my hometown’s circumstances, this alone gives ample berth to find credibility in any rumor or suspicion.
It might explain why Dad decided to move everyone to Springdale and Northwest Arkansas for a new life. After he went to Indiana and ended up in prison, he returned to Monroe County to stay. Whether he would farm, be a mechanic, or work one of several other jobs available, he made it clear he was back to stay.
Now, thanks to DNA and an ongoing decision to keep looking, I’ve changed the narrative of how I came to live in this part of the state. Much of my adult life revolves around terrible misbehavior on the part of my Dad. Knowing that I live here due to it changes nothing. Yet, it does make me think about the spiderweb of cause and effect.
In the summer of 1972, we packed up and moved to Northwest Arkansas. It was probably August, not long before school started.
I am convinced that we moved in 1972 primarily because my missing sister was born in May of that year.
If I heard rumors of her when I was younger, they would have been snippets of angry revelation from my Mom or others, probably during a drunken tirade. I did hear hypothetical insinuations, but I don’t recall concrete accusations. Such a truth would have certainly caused a homicide between my Mom and Dad. I have to admit the possibility, though. The existence of my new sister in itself proves that we are all unreliable witnesses to our lives. I used that concept of ‘unreliable witness’ on one of my first blog posts about genealogy. We will never have all the facts of our lives coherently arranged. We can’t trust our memories, much less those around us, who actively conceal and camouflage their lives for one reason or another.
I lived most of my life suspecting that my new sister was out there in the world. She lived most of her life without the answers that could have given her the ability to understand herself better. It wasn’t her choice, but she paid the price and consequences of not knowing. I hate that for her.
I don’t know how life would have looked had Dad been honest with everyone about having another child. He died in 1993, another lifetime ago. My sister was around 21, and I was about 26. His shame or inability to acknowledge his indiscretion robbed other people of a fuller life. I can’t understand how a man who beat his wife and children, went to prison, and killed someone in a DWI accident would have difficulty saying he had another daughter. This is doubly true after his Mom died on May 21st, 1983. My sister turned eleven years old the next day.
I wish.
I wish that people could be open to the complexity of their lives.
Were it my choice, all of y’all who know me well also know that I am no fan of concealment. We’ve done it, said it, and lived it, precisely in the same way that my Dad and others did before we came along. In the future, our descendants will whisper, pry, and discover. You may as well give the painful answers now if you find yourself in any way in the role of a secret keeper.
Somewhere, there is another me, looking for answers and wishing that my sister didn’t have to spend so many years without her truth being exposed.
I wish.
I wish. For me, for you, for us all.
Let’s all shine the lights in whatever direction they are needed.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 