When I was a child, I would lie on my stomach under my great aunt's piano and read while she played Chopin. It was the most ornate piano one could imagine. She said it had belonged to the Post cereal family. It had a deep purple velvet cushion on the bench with long dangling tassels that would swing back and forth during a particularly lively piece.
A magical place, where she lived. And she was the magician. She loved the Ouija board and other mystical practices. She had long red nails that she would run along my arm. After awhile, though, it felt like the skin was going to tear, but I craved the attention, so I kept quiet.
Just thinking about those times, made me feel more relaxed now too.
Between the political environment, the "thing,"missing you and worrying about the next attempt on my life, I have been a "bit" tightly strung. And I put too much importance on certain input. I am actually beginning to breathe again.
Be well. In my heart.
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