Wednesday, September 24, 2008

A story begins...

I was 38 years old when I walked away from home. It was a perfect fall night: big yellow moon, constellations out in all their glory, the slightest chill that makes you want to wrap up in a cozy sweater. I was sitting on the back porch, listening to comfortable music. Smiling. Sipping wine. I felt like dancing. I stood up and started to sway and then to spin. And then the back porch wasn’t big enough any more and I walked onto the grass. And then the fence was too confining so I opened the gate and walked into the street in front of my house. I didn’t like the glare of the streetlamp on the corner, so I walked further to find a place where the stars weren’t blocked by other lights. I had bare feet and a soft grey nightgown on. I could feel the gravel and asphalt digging into the pads of my feet and sneaking in between my toes. I had on a nubby, second-hand sweater at least 3 sizes too big, and I held it tight around me as I sought the purer night.

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