Room to Move….

W

I come from a long line of stoic men.  My father was great with people, until someone told him what to do, or interrupted his martini time.   They liked their space and I am my father’s daughter.  Once, while moving me for the fourth time-my roommate issues were loathsome, including a stint with a mobster and drug dealer who held a gun to my face-my father told me how much I reminded him of himself.  But he shook his head and said,

“But Honey, you’re a woman,” as if reminding himself that yes, I indeed was a woman who had the traits of a man.  Not those traits-independence, I am my own person, being alone is not a liability kind of characteristics.  My father was fearless, in the face of daunting circumstances, he always, always put on a brave face, and that my friends is what I do with satire.  I write the occasional Shakespearean tragedy from time to time, but that is an attempt at helping others, and the therapy is free.

I am on the mend, learning to define Michele, and each and every day is a new surprise, a new beginning.  No haunting echoes of the C-word’s daggers, no loved ones telling me what to do every five minutes (oh the horror, even my husband is trained to shutty) not a soul to answer to where it comes to my art and expressing my true self.

Having this freedom?  I’m like a little girl in line to see Santa Claus; only this time, Jesus is along for the ride.

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