Dear Diary:
She looks out from my screen.
Gazing at something across the room that she’s seen before.
20 and 40 and 60 years; knowing now how it will all turn out.
That heartbreak will unfold, then heal. Again. And unfold. And heal. Again.
Tightly cropped. A bit blurred.
Frail, straight shoulders supporting the hands of invisible grandkids
who were chopped from the frame so we could focus on
Her simple black coat. Practical plain nursing home hair. Tiny shiny earrings.
Glasses polished crystal clean. Soft skin faithfully lotioned and waiting for a child’s kiss.
All topped by the surprising, styling, vivid blue-green hat with a noisy flower
that denies the reserved, neutral, barely curved semi-smiling mouth;
All reserved. All neutral.
The blue green hat bursts out:
I’m inside. I’m still here, inside. Still audacious, inside.
Still vibrant. Still curious and wise and loving and wondering. Inside.
Now find me.