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True Story.

And as we stood squinting on the cloudless ridge, overlooking the Oakland
flats and the whole of the sun-reflecting Bay, I realized _____.
And as my sneakers imprinted a pseudo-fossil in the dense
mud, and the high notes of laughter pealed behind me on the trail, I recognized ______.
And as I leaned against the door frame and jokingly informed my visitor that I would indeed outlive my cat, the conviction came that _____.
And as I tore another rakishly handsome man out of the GQ my friend had delivered me, I thought to myself,
Perhaps ______.
Scanning the scrawled, fading prices written years before and now magneted to my refrigerator
door, I considered the destinations, Barcelona, Maui, Paris, and I knew _____.
Considering what would happen when all this was done, I look out over the pages of the 2013 calendar to March, and wonder ______.
Pulling off my stocking cap, exposing my hairless scalp to the high-end
thrift shop, and pulling on the ridiculous fur-covered Cossack one, a 10-year old boy grins conspiratorially at me, and I internally affirm that, Yes, ______.
Brushing popcorn crumbs out of my bra as the credits
roll and my companions break down the ending, I smile, recognizing that maybe, just maybe, _____.
Three neat packages stood angled at my apartment door, and
as the giddy curiosity flushes my veins, ______.
Peeling the aluminum foil back from the paper plate, the pecan pie
sat tempting and glutinous, and I figure, ______.
And when my friend tells me, as so many have lately, that she
loves my blog, that my writing invites her to examine her
own life and choices, that indeed I already am doing something with my writing, I allow myself to hold the
compliment and to fully acknowledge that _____.

One thought on “True Story.

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