This morning, I sat in my back yard at 5 am in a Bowie shirt and a pair of my husband's boxers.
When I was a teen, I used to buy plaid Hanes boxers to wear over red thermals like shorts. I would pair this ensemble with a concert tee and a used thrift store men's vest or blazer.
Nowadays, the boxers are more laziness as they're clean and folded in the laundry room downstairs. Still, I haven't changed much in 35 years.
My dogs whine, they growl like Ewok shih tzus. "Shhhh," I plead.
Turning on Pandora, I listen to "Paint It Black" by the Stones. Jagger's voice echoes. "I have to turn my head until the darkness goes."
Ain't that the truth. I feel like I'm naturally dark. My thoughts are melancholy naturally, but lately it's been more light. A golden light.
It's almost as if a dark cloud that was over me is gone. All I can see is the sun. And it's so damn bright. It's shining all over me. Dancing in the warmth of its rays, I want this to last forever.
Maybe because I finally found and accept my destiny. It's nothing fancy. Just a writer of words. A blue collar scribe. That's me.
In my mind's eye, I see my father standing over my shoulder smiling, smoking a Kent cigarette.
As he blows smoke rings like puffy white clouds into the air, he says "Finally Jenny, you got it. You got it my girl."