I haven’t seen my children in, let me check the counter, ah 195 days. Thanks counter! And this stabs and strangles me and leaves me limping. But it’s only a flesh wound! That knight’s night is a dream.
So I plod on and do my best to nurse my broken heart with the learned skills I’ve gathered. I’ve become that knight, I suppose. My armor is patchwork though. Some of it is makeup, some of it is voice, some of it is chest, some of it is skirts. My chainmail is a camisole. I curl the visor bangs over my eyes with a curling iron.
I’m slowly getting through it. The dreams of my children will suffice for now. I have to imagine what they look like. But I’ve always been a creative sort. I imagine that the older boy is still a toe head. And I suppose the younger still has his floppy hair and goofy inquisitive look. The older one is doing his best to be a knight!
So the knight, like Quixote, is a bumbler by birth. She’s filled with the zeal of the fight. Of course the sword is double edged. What is a single edged sword? And what is a sword if it’s not swung? An unswung sword, only a page would countenance such a thing. But sometimes pages have wisdom.
I’ve bumbled on and swung my double edged sword with sometimes precise poise and sometimes limp-wristed parry. And one time or three there has been collateral damage. Some people were hurt because they knew not that this knight was She. And I’ve accepted that. It’s all a hurtful mess of tangled ties that sometimes tear and trip.
So I’m resting with the Windmills in the distance. And some lofted bombs come toward me mortared. But I have to sit with my page and nurse our wounds and think of arrears and garnishments and interest rates.
I love to write as much as I love to right. Sometimes in my dreams, I can fly. I can’t fly high or faster than a speeding bullet, but I can just lean forward and fly forward, carried with the wind. It’s just the right amount of flying for me. And so I lean forward and smile and go toward my windmill, my children, my zeal, my peace.