FORTY-TWO

I do not sit on different couches, or put on hats, or paint Quiet Passion on my walls. I do not clip magazines, or cut my hair, or imagine thin.

I try on different sounds – roll letters in my mouth like marbles. I taste their smoothness, feel the way they puff my cheeks. I parrot, biting words like crackers, repeating.

I search for voice – creator voice. I am no longer content with void.

I know who I am. I know Who I believe. I ask myself, What do you want?

I do not ignore.

I pay someone else to wash my floors.

I dance. I laugh. I open. I loosen my hold on good and blessings.

I say yes and no, and mean it.

I talk to strangers who are not angels. I confess the truth. I’m not one either.

I do not judge.

I take Jesus at his word. I forgive – seventy, times eight – and learn wipe the slate clean.

I imagine I am a painting – I strip back layers, slowly, with love, with alcohol and Q-tips. It is pain staking, removing what has been added – but there is something precious underneath.

I stand naked in front of the mirror. I give thanks for stretch and scar and time – proof of covenant. These are blessings that are fixed. They cannot be taken back.