Interlude

 My daughter who lives with me has gone on a trip for a little more than 2 weeks. 

I call it my crying time. My singing time. My remembering time.

It is wild to think how much I mask. I think sometimes how I learned to mask, as a very, very young child. And how no one saw me. It is OK. I am not judging. My parents saw me better than I think many others would have, but my teachers! Those women I spent 5 or 6 hours of my day with. I had no relationship with any of them. They did not see me. I was blessed that all of my teachers, at least grades K-4, were kind, but they had a lot of students, and teachers aides did not seem to exist in those days, and some of the kids were really disruptive. I was never disruptive. I rarely had any troubles with my studies so I watched and I learned to try hard, hard, hard to suss out the rules. If you couldn't get the rules, something bad could happen to you. That is how I learned to mask. 

I love singing. 

I love living here in our little home of three.

But having these weeks for crying and remembering, and singing every single feeling I have at the top of my lungs, it is a good time.

I am thankful for it.