How can I not love a man who buys me fresh flowers every week? The dozen white roses in front of me eagerly reaching up toward their untimely death, perched atop their sturdy stems that will soon wither in the compost. I will never be younger than I am today. And someone loves me. These flowers remind: "Twenty six years of training..." Training almost complete.
My space. I have not yet inhabited it. It waits for me patiently, calling softly for me to come and finish the novel that I started last October. Before I go, I want to establish with a man who loves me that I am not abandoning him. That I am the woman who leaves and comes back.
But am I afraid myself of losing this sustaining love? Am I avoiding that room that awaits because the departure from my routines of 26 years are too difficult even for me? Because what awaits is unknown and terrifying?
Yes. All of that. And more.
White roses, a symbol of what? Peace? Something to fill a void?
Yes. All of that and more.
Today I will work my heart hard at the gym, and my arms, and my legs. I'll push myself in a battle against time and gravity to keep blood flowing strong enough to lead my colleagues in another battle for survival. Then we will all socialize with smiles of optimism for the many audiences we serve.
Tomorrow night, after that battle and celebration, back to the silent room to work on Mates in Captivity. I will buy flowers for myself.
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