I. Want.

I’m pissed off and depressed. My toes are definitely fat, on both feet now. Is this the beginning? Will I have any time past this summer to do the things I want to do?

I want to drive over to Winthrop and watch the stars at night. I want to go to the beach, maybe even down to Oregon see two of my favorite Border Collies. I want to take Stevie for lots of walks on Whidbey Island; me, who barely has the energy to walk the half mile to the lake and back. I can breathe better over there. Maybe I’ll be able to walk a little; if I ever get it together to go.

I want to ride a horse wild along the sand. I want to sled down a snowy hill and have it be fun; I want to do all those bumps and tumbles without my back hurting. I want to drive a long, long way and see new places. I want to see the East Coast in all its autumn splendor. I want to see what is so beautiful about New Hampshire and the White Mountains, the rustic parts of Vermont, and the rural beauty of northern New York State.

Bryce canyon at sunrise by Jon Sullivan

I want to sit in a desert bare canyon, near a warm shallow stream and I want to see Bryce Canyon in the snow. I want to feel the sun hot on my back, like I almost felt today. I want to hold scads of wiggly puppies and get lots of kisses, paws-in-the-face love. I want to hold a bunny.

I want to brush and love an old horse, and feel the warm solidity of an equine hug. I want to play with kittens and scritch a cow and make Stevie very, very happy several days in a row.

I want to go back to Colorado, sit on the porch in Bun Gun Zhing Wak and watch the fog make all the ridges visible, ridge by ridge by tree-crested ridge. I want to sit in the woods in Idaho and talk to the chickadees. I want. I want.

I want to eat anything I want to eat and have it feed me. I want to have a steak, not too well done, and eat some really good chicken, not that shit in the QFC deli. I want eggs and potatoes over a campfire that I built and tended. I want to sleep in the truck and wake to the cold morning having slept well through the rain. I want to write poems of which Phebe would be proud.

I want to go to Alaska, in the winter, and ride a dog sled. I want to go kayaking somewhere warm, where the water is an impossible shade of turquoise and porpoises play around my boat. I want to go swimming with dolphins and have conversations with Orcas. I want to know that I’m going to go to the Bridge, and see all my kids again. What I wouldn’t give to hug Lucky again, laugh at Little Girl’s antics and feel her warm little body solid against my chest. I want to run my hands through Myrddin’s silky hair. God I miss those guys.

I want to know that what I’m posting is really awesome writing and that my soul is bare for all the doubters to believe. I want to feel a running horse between my thighs and see blue and golden Columbines parted in a swath beneath our feet. I want to be tumbled by the waves on a Mexican beach, and play with tiny sand crabs while the sun and surf wash over my naked body.

Rocky mountain columbine by Dr. Thomas G. Barnes, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Just once, I want to wear a bra bigger than a -AAA, and feel like a girl with boobs. Just once, mind you; I’m sure it will be a passing fancy. I want my hands to find the words easily, signing quickly and gracefully, and learn how to mimic a cat trotting across the street.

I want to see England’s Lake District, eat cheese in Paris and watch a Mediterranean Sea lap the hull of a small sailboat that I can guide with skill and grace. I want to fly above the clouds and swim below the waves. I want to explore a coral forest and see all the tropical fish. I want to ride through the Methow until I’m so dirty and so brown and so strong and so wiry that the tourists mistake me for a native.

In The Wood by Petr Kratochvil

I want to travel back in time and swim through Glenwood’s pool underwater, eyes open and soothed by the minerals, still unsullied by chlorine. I want to laugh with my aunties and tease my uncles just once more. I want to hold a baby, laugh with a toddler and answer a four year old’s questions every night for a year.

I want to live to be an old woman. I have to live to have silver hair; it is my birthright. I want to stand on the cliffs of Dover, feel the wind against my goose-bumped arms, and hear Vera Lynn singing to the gulls. I want to go to a Holly Near concert and sing with the women. I want to sit on a Michigan hillside and hear Cris’ voice reaching for the most distant of planets.

I want to raise my voice and sing along, hearing the effortless harmonies in a roomful of women who love women. I want to sit by my lover and hold her hand and lean against her shoulder and feel laughter bubbling up in my throat because life is so wonderful and women sing together so well. I want to go home from the concert, still high on all that energy, and write poetry until dawn, with my lover asleep next to me in the bed.

I want the world to see me for who I really am, and know that finally, completely, the lies have been vanquished. I want to grow, I want to live, I want to dream, I want to write, I want to sing, I want to sign, I want to dive through the waves like a flying fish and come up laughing for more, again and again and again.