Turn Around


To come back home.

I find synchronicity interesting.

Devastating at times.

Seasonal senses on high alert, emotions, tied to the falling leaves that I scuffle through on the way to the park, the smell of burning smoke, the delicious burnt black singed scent of the  tops of pumpkins whose lids have been cradled too close to the licking flames of paraffin candles, the endless blue that caps the sky, reminding me of all the things I said goodbye to.

To say hello again.

I am back home.

In a new home.

With a heart that still aches and wonders what happened and how and why, but why, well, I could spend my whole life trying to figure out why and then what a shame, no?

To lay upon death’s door and realize that the whys and the whereofs do not matter.

To have wasted precious time sequestering myself away to attempt to ferret out meaning, when it is of no consequence.

In a hundred years will my name be on any lips?

May I never live to live for that.

“Your blogs make me cry,” he said to me.

They make me cry too, sometimes, or that feeling, that elixir of emotions that bubbles up inside me that makes me notice, almost relentlessly so, those things that are magic in my life.

I was walking the boys to the park today, oh my boys, my darling boys, and a mom and her daughter were asking directions at the head of the Golden Gate Park area at the bottom of Haight Street.

She was looking for the Koret Children’s Area.

“Follow me,” I said, “I am heading that way.”

The girl, four, five, long brown curly hair, spirals of chestnut-brown nicked with golden blonde highlights, danced around her mother’s legs and peered out at me now and again with a shy smile and inquisitive eyes.

She wore purple tights with pink polka dots.

I showed them the way and we parted just past the bridge that runs under Lincoln Avenue.

The frame of the arch spanning over the mother and daughter, the playground with its turrets of towers in the back round, the skittering of leaves, and the squirrel that ducked and leapt across the pathway made my heart just stop.


My heart boomed, and without meaning to, without thinking, I said, “Oh God, I want one of those.”

The little girl with the long brown hair clinging to her mother’s hand as she bent over and pushed the hair from her childs face.



I am 40, there are those that suggest I could have a biological clock happening, there is that.

I don’t argue, I don’t agree or disagree, I am just stating the facts.

It was like being bowled over.

Then I thought, is it me, do I just want to be that little girl, do I still have a clamouring for polka dots and pink and sashes and mary janes, carousel rides, furry collars on coats, Paige boy bangs on a haircut, woolen tights, and pigtails, slides, and bubbles and princess trappings and dreams.

Who knows.

I am just here reporting what happened.

It did give me pause though.

There was no having baby, family, or relationships in Paris.

Despite the fantasy that just that would happen.

Oh, come now, like you didn’t see that happening?

Well, you could always get married to a Frenchman and get your papers that way.


But I seemed to have come full circle, back to these places and faces and friends and lovers that I wonder, what did I miss that first go round.

Here is this person and that person and here are what our relationships looked like when I was leaving for Paris: the friend, the lover, the Mister.

Now, could I roll them all up into one, I would have the perfect person.

But there is no perfect person and I am no perfect person.

Perfectly fine with that, at least for the moment, who knows what five minutes from now will look like, but let’s not quite go there yet, shall we?

My sensitive dear friend who would stop by the bicycle shop and ask me about my plans for Paris, my lover who I wondered, what if, but hey, don’t go there heart, you are leaving, the Mister who was dressed in love’s trappings, but did not seem to have the sensitive life inquisitiveness that I was desiring, just all the romantic accoutrement of courting at his fingers, nor the passion and ardor I had with the lover.

Six months of distance.

Six months of interactions with all of them.

Some more than others.

Some in surprising tender ways that still cause me pause.

Of course, my filter is slanted, it is all me, it is all one-sided.

I never asked what I could bring, was I more than a pretty face driving away in a convertible.

“You look hot driving my car,” the Mister texted me after I pulled away in his black convertible he was loaning me for the week before I flew off to the land of Once upon a time and far, far away.

I never asked my lover what he wanted, I was too scared to say what I wanted.

“Use your words,” he said to me with a smile, rosy, blown open, skin flush with desire.

I never asked my friend what was it about my writing that made you cry?

What service did I bring?

What lesson am I back here again learning as I re-engage with each one of them.

Some who have traded places the lover to friend the friend to lover?

The leaves today, crisp under my heels, the sun-bright on my cheeks.

I went to the farmers market as the afternoon was winding down and the baby snuggled to my chest was consistently confused as mine and for the first time in some time I didn’t correct those folks who made the assumption that the child was mine.

No, he is just on loan, but I am here, too, repeating this relationship, the nanny.

“You will keep having the same relationships until you learn what you need to learn,” she said to me over cafe cremes in the upstairs loft of the Lizard Lounge in the Marais.

I am willing to learn and I am willing to not shut the door on this past year, I am too, a little misty eyed to think of myself at this time last year, one night away from my last tryst with the lover, the last date with the Mister, the last hug with my friend.

Fly, I think to that brave girl, fly little girl, go find yourself.

Woman returned.

I turned around and found that I am grown.

Girl no more.


Soft roar.

Strong walk.

Tender heart.

The child has been subsumed and the woman emerges.

From the hollowed hearts of persimmons and the capped lids of pumpkins.

Turned out topsy-turvy into another new moment.

At the edge of the world.

The foot of the ocean.

I find myself.

And stand anew.


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