I feel old. I am older than I was before having children; older still since San left, as I can no longer defer to his judgement as I had always done in the past. He was the primary parent and I the one who passed the children to him when I was at a loss.
And yet, in the way of our world, I am not so old as all that. Something like 30. I do not like how old I sound, to tell tales of my children and few of my own. I love them. I speak of them because of it. But also because what else is there for me? I have tales I cannot tell of the past. I have tales of San, some of which will be told tonight, but they are static.
I have some desire to love, among those I have known a long time, but it is embers. Nothing fans it to fire, and I suspect even granted the opportunity, I would not achieve it. Just now I cannot imagine the grand sweep of the desire that trembles for myself. I am glad for Lynn and EL, and for others not yet named. For those who are in love with this husband, even, in the way of the light.
I feel a bit the old witch, not the young. On the side lines, ceding fire to the young. This is what all this brings me to.
I wonder if I will find myself again. Sometimes I wish to take a lover in the old manner, break him or her, and strike a fatal blow. Just to show I can, and to tell the tale of it.