I am re-acquainted with an old lover. Her name is Valencia and she throbs under my fingers as I gingerly find my rhythm and remember the places I touched her once before. I need to pitch it to her. It’s been a long time since we were united and her nylon slips out of key quickly. But oh, the memories are coming flooding back. The tears, the hypnotic sessions, the dreams we shared together. Fuck I have missed this; the way she feels on my arms, under my fingers. The way she responds in kind. And she is beautiful. How wrong that I should keep her locked away from the world. Time to start singing again.
It cannot be reclaimed; the timeline, on a sloping line, gathers momentum. On reflection, I do best – what could have, should have been. The roads I’ve traveled or traveled away from. Once without boundaries, easily crossed and turning pages of this daily journal. I could change direction. It was easy. Not so easy anymore. The load is not light, the bones are growing weary. The muscle aches from memory. Too late now, to throw one’s head back and think about the wavering course. I am not Lot’s Wife. Will not be Lot’s Wife: less my heart turn to stone. We shall never truly know, shall we?