And then there is this old beat up scratched upon scribbled in filled up gem. This one is a keeper. It is the not let anyone else read one.
When I came back from “Tahiti” as we call it, the women in my life rallied around me… Well, not all. Not my mother. Not my sisters. But those two women who were better than. Once stronger than, came back to rally even while holding aside their own judgements, questions, gossip, lies, sadness, disappointment, hatred even maybe, and the things we’d fallen out for… before.
They didn’t care…. There they were. Then. When it mattered most. Regardless of all.
I had lost everything. I didn’t have a home. I didn’t even have family. I had trudged four miles in a freezing driving rain of January wearing Summer clothing.
One of the things given was this book from one. A suitable pen by the other. Not a cheap pen or any pen or a nearby laying around easy to reach pen, but a “proper pen for a writer”. Roof over my head and food in my belly and silent resilience of women set aside, and opened arms… This… This is what said to me “you are still you and we know that” when for too long I’d lost my entire identity, even so I was unsure, forgotten to myself.
The blank pages of a brand new green (of fresh new beginnings) leather bound book to…. Put it all in. Those things in my head. “Don’t explain anything. You don’t owe them. They can buy it later for $17.99.” was said.
And while I was free I was still felt unable to escape, but this was where I could turn.
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