Movement. Moving on, moving beyond, moving just moving, is it. It, by the way, is just a pronoun, and one to be employed cautiously. It cautioned, she, he, they, them, into places they were frickin fed up of being. I remember the rote, the quote, the confines of being a english lit student, and one who challenged. I wish I could go back to the 15 year old me, the one who disturbed until.

The until came to bite me in the butt. No matter, I got away from galoshes and Sunday Itchy Pants, my perfect companion, gone now, I remember her so very well. She galoshed me, in her Sunday Itc hy Pants over three long years and joined me in all the hijinks. We tore the ridiculous confines and restrictions into opportunities. Paper chances, and we employed them from Monday on. I miss her. Without her, I would have been so lost in that straightupnoarguament place, run by women who had no idea about sex, hoping for it, but, in their day, it wasn’t acceptable pre marriage. They were of their time. However, war loomed, men would go and not just be home for Christmas.

She was in the moment. Not stupid, not lost, strong. A voice, I can hear her now with her Hallo as she walked towards me near Battersea , and that pavement stretch was nothing. She knew me. I knew her. Neither of us have had an easy marriage. Who has btw? And we met in a wine bar and it was almost as if we were still the elves who, flexidexrous, confounded authority. I rest there, my lovely Kate.