Walking back from the Farmer's Market Sunday, my beloved Punster and I noodled around with the following story:
Honeydew you love me?
Yes, but we cantaloupe… even though we make a berry lovely pear.
Asparagus, (I'll spare a guess) you think that even though I go bananas for you, and you're nuts about me, your celery at the Apple Store, and mine cannot produce enough bread to sustain the relationship.
Orange you glad we can understand one another peasfully? Lettuce be glad of that. Do you carrot all for me?
Mmmm hmmm. My sentimental friend Artichokes up when he hears me say it, Olive you berry, berry much.
And I yam in love with you too!
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Big and ancient feelings have been percolating through my system this week. It's as if the cork of shame, which I thought I had removed from my throat, has been reinserted and glued in place. Perhaps the lodging of it there happened on the signing of final escrow transference of my childhood home to new owners. Perhaps it wedged more tightly when I declared, out loud to a witness, that I choose not to be at the effect of what happened in that house. Events which sent me running to my closet for safety seem to be playing in my mind and body once more as if to sneer, "You'll never be safe if you're seen and heard." What ever the cause, it's clear the Shame Bug done bit me, leaving marks on my flesh.
Incubating courage to try again, I write and write what may or may not be brought to light. Only time will tell.
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