Missing

I am crying like a teenager whose first boyfriend left her.

This music, classical, strange that I have come to it so late has unleashed something akin to a dam being broken.  I am lost here in these notes.  I am high and I am low.  I don't know which way to go. I follow the rhythm and I cry and I cry some more.

I've been missing this most of my life.  All my life.  But better I discovered it now, on the brink of breaking, older and wiser, rather than the youthful nuts and bolts of death by devotion and quick un-devotion.

My boys have enjoyed Vivaldi because I have him on my playlist and they say, "Oh this is pretty good Mama."

But my GOD.

And I mean my GOD.

This is too much for one person.

I'm listening to Virgil Boutellis-Taft, Incantation.

My life may never be the same again.  Just as when you meet your first lover, young and stupid, the music of your body plays along.  Until. Well we all know the until when.

The synapses in my brain where the repression is strong and not yet, of course, unleashed, is calling, but the door is closed.

Knocking.

No one is home.
_____________________________
Knock, Knock.

Whose there?

Mickey Mouse's underwear.
_____________________________
At least that is how the knock, knock joke went when I was just a baby of nine or ten.

These days the children, the teens, the pre-teens, seem much more resilient than I ever was.  But then again that is really not a feat for the ages.

Resiliency is something I've come to realize only over the last forty and eight plus years is something I have in spades.  I survive. I am alive. Always.

But now.

Now that I've been broken by Virgil, the missing parts are floating up and calling.

They want their say.

And my answer is a firm: NO.

Stay put.

You know how to do that.

You know how to shut the bleep up.

So do that.

Don't be the one that unleashes anything because you will be sorry.

Even though the missing parts of the story are begging to be told.

Sandra XXOO