Profile: My current (former?) profile says I’m not through growing yet. I’ve re-thought that.
When after an uncomfortable (well, some of it) thousand-mile trip you finally arrive at the end of the line only to realize your ticket was for the wrong destination, what then? Is it your imagination that someone whispers “Gotcha!”?
Despite what the scientists predict, my first organ to go was my heart. It turned to stone. My last surgeon said, showing my daughter my extracted mitral valve, it was hard as a pebble from a brook. On to another, more current metaphor for me, while awaiting compost:
I am lying on a vast bed of empty metal ice maker cubes (remember, from the old refrigerators?), trying to be helpful I’m sure, someone puts such a tremendous pressure on me (steamroller?) that my body is now comprised of hundreds of cubes, almost like building blocks. Now I’m really ready for compost.
But wait just a f***ing minute! Building blocks! Like in the days of yore, before my post-partum depression at 83? Whee!
Ah ha…. imaginations are something, aren’t they?!
Couldn’t live without them, could we!
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