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A slow moment at a cafe in Ogunquit, Maine.
There's a writers' guru named Dan Blank who asks writers to answer, "What do you want to say?"
It's mid-August, and I want to keep these thoughts at bay. I want to hold on to sitting with friends in the shade... smacking my arm after the mosquito's left... The streets are empty. I'm feeling slightly aimless (which is good). But here it is. Here is what I've been doing and believing for the last many years:
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Elizabeth Lara, Poet. Photograph by Juan Armando Rojas.
Elizabeth spoke to me of grief and a sense of loss. “I had to find a way to hold on to the original me.”
I’d traveled in Europe by myself after college, unfazed by what might make others hesitate. A summer in France introduced me to being a foreigner, how to sink or swim in a society that was not mine. I had no reservations about moving to another country, but I was afraid of marriage. Erasmo talked me into it.
Photo by Angele Camp on Unsplash
Please forgive me while I clear my throat…
petulant petals pity party
Are we in purgatory?
I met with my besties on Zoom yesterday. Friends of many years, some living at significant distances. They’re listless, unfocused, cranky. Our world has shrunk again. O M I C R O N. It sounds like the plague.
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