Add the nod of my head toward his on the long train ride into work. Hear the flow of laughter and challenge as knowledge and invitation become fluid in the air between us through the sharing of our words. Let me reach my hand out to touch your arm, mesmerized as your lips spill forth your soulful beliefs.
Fill the chairs around my table, let worthy words swirled with old wines connect me to those competitive scrappers with raw ambition, outlandish ideas and firm opinions. Draw me in, eat away at my resolve to remain stagnant, and toast to the truth telling, the vetting of tradition in gender and role.
Lounge with me, my silver haired man, in the mountains of Guatemala and teach me the language of your childhood. Dance me through cobblestone streets in this ancient town, hand on the small of my back, heat replacing words as we spin and dip, and do not fail to translate for me the meaning of those sweetly whispered profanities tempered by adoration and delivered to that small exposed space below my ear. Every time fingertips brush the hair from my cheek, your words rise up and take me back to that club in Antigua.
My lovers, followers and friends- and those wordsmiths I only know from these word filled screens that fill a blogger’s waking hours – Share your favorites with me, here?
Take my traditions and comforts and meld them with experiences until I am more than I was, and now, so painfully aware of how much more I can be. And, God, how little time there is. She could not imagine which would be worse; to lose one’s hearing or one’s voice or one’s sight.