We all write from a different place. Pain seems to be my muse. It is not that I live in a state of it. Seek it. But it is part of me. It is laced throughout my life in ways that are shocking. Firsthand, secondhand. Inheritance. Burden. Gift.
Some are marked in one way or the other. It is like a gift of sorts. In my case I am happy that it has allowed me to relate with to my husband, my children, their friends, strangers, residents in a way that is not false. That I can say, I’ve been there. I get it. I know. I have seen the best in people but mostly, the worst. I have been observing since I was a child. I have solved my own mysteries. Have seen what other people have missed. I think this second heart, comes from my great grandma. She had seen some things. Had dreams that predicted. Had a gift for numbers, but was not boastful. She said what needed to be said. Bit her tongue accordingly. When she left. It was sudden. It shook me. I still have her obituary im my board. She has been gone 22 years.
But I do get joy. Happiness. Love. I am loved, I love. I want for the little things, attainable things that may seem grand but I always shave them down in my heart. When you come from little, you appreciate that extra bite. Two bites seem like everything. But also when you slip, you can adapt because you have been there— but damn, it hurts. But that is okay too.
This morning, on my way from the Thrift store. With a slight headache, a title came to my head, The Divorcee. Reminds me of the title of a Matlock episode. I love Matlock. (Shhh!) I rolled up to a red light and spitted a few lines into my Notes app. Who knows if anything will come of it, but sometimes it is hard to distinguish the weed from the flower, so I ignore nothing.