It will be my escape, this trip to England. Away from the detested job, away from the grief of losing a twin, a mother too soon, too young – the both of us. Age 52 and 28, the year 2006, the date the 6th of November, these numbers forever branded into my soul in fiery red scars.

But this British Midland flight will take me away from all that. I will fly toward my across-the-ocean-lover-when-convenient, best lover I’ve ever had and this I learned in only six days two summers ago. This plane takes me 7 hours and 40 minutes away from this pitiful existence toward something with life, with hope, with phenomenal love.

The birds I watched overhead as a child, the ones that told me to run, I’m not taking their advice; I’m a dying breed who believes one can lose the memory of a mother for seven days and replace it with kisses that bring hands to breasts, to cock, to nails on back, losing myself in his skin and those beautiful moles on his inner thigh.

12/29/2006

Posted on 12/29/2006
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