I was in Paducah, by myself, and some friendly Kentucky boy tried to sit down next to me while I was trying to write. I politely turned him down, and he sat on the next bench down, furiously texting someone and occasionally glancing at me. This derailed my planned Deep Contemplative Thoughts and led to me becoming a 13-year-old, writing in her diary about who likes me and who doesn't.
When did my heart stop growing? Was it at 11 when my parents divorced? At 13 when I was so deep in despair that I wanted to die? At 18 when my first serious love broke up with me? I picture my heart in my mind as a solid foundation, incomplete but well made, with a random patchwork of rooms and floors stacked on top. Dead end hallways. Windows on brick walls. Rooms with no doors. Some living spaces are bright, clean and full of air. More often, walls are patched over with crumbling plaster and duct tape. Bit of a mess back there -- under construction with nails sticking up and tools scattered all over the floor.
The foundation is strong, but this feels like a gut rehab. I only hope I have the energy to see it through.
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