Tonight I walked home with the sunset and slowly up the stairs to my pre-war apartment, quiet and calm and drifting on a cloud of Ella Fitzgerald and twilight. I was wearing a Harris Tweed coat and a little felt hat, and it suddenly hit me that this moment could have taken place any time in the last sixty years. There once again at my kitchen window with my beautifully striped permakitten I smiled at the citysky and at at all the other women through time who’d watched the heavens from the land where I was perched. When we surrender to its magic, Mercury retrograde opens portals to other eras like a time machine that doesn’t believe in time at all.
When I came to Truro, it was to be for a month. I had put the word out among my extended circle that I was looking to live in rural New England in September, and had rolled my eyes as I’d done so. Who’d be willing to lend me their empty house wily-nily for four weeks?
I had gall.
But as is often the case when life really needs to change, that gall paid off. A friend from high school—really, someone I liked but had never known very well—got in touch through Facebook, and the next thing I knew Grace and I were hurtling to Truro in a car full of cat food, thin cotton dresses, and platform shoes.
That’s who I was on September 7. Tired eyes, disappointed smiles, trailing glamour like yesterday’s big idea. Grief-stricken about the hateful ignorance validated by the Trussian Oligarchy. Grief-stricken about who I no longer was. Continue Reading →