My fingernails are wearing the dark side of the moon. My toenails favor a similar style, accessorized in tender shades of red. I marvel at the way in which chemical healing tattoos survival on skin, in flesh, inside the bone.
Once upon a wee chat, while the tip of my left thumb danced kisses over the dark line dissecting my right thumb nail, a mouth that matters said, “I wish I could find the words to talk to you about what’s happening to you, express how I feel, how often I think about you. I am just so scared.”
I’ve yet to speak to that mouth, chant into that heart, sing that song about how scared I am not. But I’ll reshare my soul (after chemo arts me again).
the ways that made me
makes me more
the wee notes…
- I started blogging, all those years ago, because as a brilliant young mind recently reminded me, I believe that “maybe most of the world’s problems are caused by people not speaking out about them”. So, I am starting over. Well, I already started: I’ve reclaimed this blog, I have been rewriting old tales. I’m dying to tell you what AlmaMia Cienfuegos and I have been up to. But I’ve chemotherapy in a couple of hours, so I must wait. But soon...
what a woman, that Frida