All my life, in addition to manager, teacher, dog walker, night librarian, cleaner of tiles, rocker of babies, folder of laundry, dish washer extraordinaire, I wanted to be a writer.
Women are rarely one thing. We can’t resist our innate talent for nesting, team building, nurturing, placing others before ourselves. This is our gift.
Our hearts are larger than we know. We learn this
by plumbing those depths in safety with women on similar treks.
Not only can we write, speak, laugh, cry, loose old bonds which keep us tied, but we find, after many drafts, the titles we long sought rest in our own hands.
No laughter resonates
like that of women beyond
need of make-up and reach of girdles.
Ladies for whom wrinkles rank in importance
well below the dog’s recovery from Lyme disease
and driving the neighbor to dialysis.
No humor is quite so funny as old friends’ jibes
about each other’s foibles and failings
or jests about sex more remembered than practiced.
The stories sweeten with each repeat.
No place is safer
than one warmed
by the laughter
of friends.
She fell like seed
on good ground –
giving herself as final
gift to land she’d
walked and worked
for years.
Leaving stories,
laughter, tears,
memories of
forthright speech
the love of liberty –
her fierce, unyielding heart,
flying free.
A WELL TRAVELED HEART 