I want to be that kind of liar. The one Fanny Howe writes about in the Wedding Dress.
I want to let go of control. I want to lose control. I don’t want control to control me.
This morning, we sat with Bello between us. I looked out at the trees that line the sidewalk. It makes no sense. Why someone would plant cement around a tree. It makes perfect sense. To build a wall to keep the modern wires and plumbing from mingling with roots.
I wish our boundary was more permeable. So that there was less wall and more wilderness.
[Into the heart of the ocean, in the belly of a forest, I whisper: “It’s been 8 years since you transitioned Dad. Look! You’re angel baby has red hair!”]