There’s a way to get onto the tarmac at any small airport in the United States. It’s pretty easy. I know you’d love to see the airplanes up close, after spending all that time watching them from the other side of the fence.
Once you’re in there with the airplanes, if you’re a middle-aged white lady minding your own business, it’s unlikely that anybody will bother you. What you don’t know about invisibility is that it can be a superpower.
I wouldn’t let anyone bother you.
Sometimes you don’t even have to be good.
You don’t have to be friends with everybody who wants to be friends with you.
There are bridges with no trolls living under them. There’s one in particular, with a kindly grandmother living on the other side. Once she caught me outside during hunting season in a grey sweatshirt, and she took off her red jacket and made me wear it.
She would approve of your red sweatshirt. In the spring, she’d let you feed the lambs.
On sunny winter mornings like this, my studio is full of light and space. And all of it is mine, for now (most things are only for now). You’d like it. You always wanted more space.
Oscar Wilde (who was even more of a smartass than your dad) went to prison pretty much for just being himself, and it broke him. While he was there, he wrote “Where there is sorrow, there is holy ground.”
You are my holy ground, now and always.