Shake it sweet baby.

You can smile at your reflection in a window or a spoon and I'll smile at you.

Your eyes are pretty, flat on the underside and curved above like cathedral windows, and they look like they've seen too much and may be the color of jade but aren't jaded. You struggle with the notion of forgivenness for those who have hurt you. Most of those wrinkles are from wicked crooked grins and a quick wit.

I remember when you screwed up dyeing your hair and it turned bright orange. You wore a blond wig for a week and took on a whole new flamboyant personality.

You thought for sure you were bound for hell and bravely bared your teeth until you learned "sin" comes from the Greek word meaning "missed the mark," and that nobody else could tell you the destination of your soul.

You laugh louder than most.

The way you smell reminds me of winter, kind of musty and black leather and old fur coats. Risidual camphor and cedar of dark old closets. Marble legs move beneath thigh-high slits in the long black velvet skirts and knee-high boots you wear without socks year-round.

Constant dark burgundy lipstick, a wild mane of dark red hair, and a sunflower tattoo on your shoulder. Black clothes, always. You say it hides stains best.

You have the sweetest kindest heart that has been hurt before but is big and unafraid.


The people we share our lives with become facets of our dreams, our laughter, our thoughts, our prayers. We both have great hope it's not cancer.