I had been feeling a little out of sorts of late, but I didn’t think to make a connection. Apparently they were way too high, with readings that were the equivalent to that of a pregnant woman. Now, that would be news.
|weekly pill duty|
In the meantime I had a busy few weeks away from home here in Maine. I drove to the Empire Trans Health Conference in Albany, New York then to a National Lesbian & Gay Task Force leadership retreat in rural North Carolina. After 2,000 miles and 7 different beds, I’m exhausted. On the first day of the retreat, we were asked to write a short poem about ourselves as part of our introduction. Our short verse was to touch on places, smells, foods and sayings that are part of who we are. I felt like I was still in a fragile place and one of my hopes for the retreat was to find some peace. As we were brainstorming, my mind wandered back again to the ocean and childhood. Here is an expanded version of the poem I wrote in North Carolina.
Close to the ocean, the air is a fragrant mix of pine needles and salt water, and mornings smell of coffee, bacon and cigarettes. I can still taste slightly sour milk and cereal from little cardboard boxes in the back of my throat.
Red-winged black birds call and tease each other playfully hiding in the cat-o-nine tails and thorny brush that line the short dirt road to the shore. All day, I laugh, explore, and play at the beach, stopping only to refuel with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and lemon-lime tonic. A quick cold shower washes off some of the fugitive sand before I run out of the bathroom crying earwig, earwig, earwig!