This is a song about honey.
It was going to be about cheese, but I ate it all with my fingers. I licked them clean and wiped them on my gingham apron with little yellow bees made from felt, so don’t fret.
Sundays are like that, in my house.
This was going to be about Elvis. My mama says when he died, I swore with my fierce little five year old heart that I would never love again. I’m not so sure I was wrong.
I still follow men with sideburns down the street, but I’ve learned to hide behind lampposts.
This once was a song about dictionaries. Sometimes, I line them up and make them play with each other, words tumbling from the spines and frolicking on my carpet.
The Russian dictionary needs to be kept apart from the German, though. They tend to pull each others’ pigtails when my back is turned.
This was going to be a song about red. It’s the colour of the spirals painted on my arm, of the caboose that knew and the hood of the girl who strode through forests with her spine straight and her smile crooked.
If I wore a scarlet letter, it would be W for wench, and my fingers would stroke the silk.
But this is a song about honey.
I have honey soap, honey candles and honey vodka that makes my eyes close and my ribcage fill with gold. I hold the jars to the light and there’s fire in the glass, sticking and shining and a star in my open hand.
It’s the only food that never spoils, and what I call the stray cats in the alleyways.
And this is a song about tails. Mine is long and lavish, with a curl to the tip like a question mark. If you know to look, you can sometimes catch sight of it dropping beneath the hem of my dress as I strut.
Many have lost their tails to the city, but some of us still purr.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the earth.
The other day, I caught sight of myself in a shop window. It was dusk, and the golden light caught the glow in my eyes and the fire of my hair, cut into a new fringe. I had a European haircut, my favourite red coat wrapped around me against the winter chill I love, and a bottle of Viognier tucked under my arm as I strode down Brunswick Street in my little black dress and knee high boots.
And I thought, well, will you look at that.
I’m all grown up, back home after weeks on foreign soil, getting paid to work with words and pretty damn comfortable in my skin, off to share cold wine and warm words with my lover on a winter night in a city I adore.
My life is damn fine.
Moments like that are pure gold….there is so much that makes me happy.
Don’t let me forget that, ok?