(This is a journal entry that perhaps should not be posted. Unfortunately for everyone, I’m in an honest mood.)
Do you remember the scarf you gave me last December? Monique, from France, brought it to you. Your aging daughter, me, can’t help but now wonder how much dad flirted with her. She was beautiful, I think. But then, maybe just more unique than most.
Surely you wore the scarf. Part of me can still see you in it. That devilish grin that had to hide your soul. I know now what that means. I didn’t then. You’re not that now. Not frightened. Most of your wars have gotten quiet. And you wear yourself with ease. I guess solitude and silence does that, or would you say experience?
I loved that scarf. The romantic bold black edge. The word “Paris.” But especially the intricate and twiggy scroll climbing along and fencing in the elegant scarlet paisley center. I lived in that pattern. Gray criss-crossing gray. All the little elements coming together to barely appear next to all of that color.
So, while sitting in the Atlanta airport waiting on a plane I wasn’t certain I wanted to catch, when you took off that scarf — 30 years after its entrance in my life, 30 years of me being something other than a dreamer — I couldn’t help but ask, is that enough to save me? Will these same eyes be able to peer at the design and wonder about being an adult, about life, love? Will I want to experience it again?
Anyway, thanks for the scarf. I wore it today like I knew what I was doing.