This morning, as I was getting ready, I recalled something that I realized a long time ago. I was born to be an old woman. I’ve been an old woman since I was a child. I was born to be that old woman who lives down the block and has no one that visitsbesides the neighborhood children. She grumbles about their presence, as she doesn’t like children, but she puts out plates of cookies for them all the same.
She tells stories. She tells odd stories. I’ve been telling little strange folk tales since I was a little little kid. She tells these stories and others. She has lived loud and is now happy to live quiet. She’s seen shit. Instead of writing my stories, I’ll let go and tell them. They will be lost on most, but at least one of those children will remember them. Like I do now and have done, she will tell them in a quiet voice. She will laugh loud.
As I get older though, I will tell these stories in a voice like my grandfather’s. Loud and booming. So you can hear me down the street.