Flowers on Sunday 1982

It almost doesn’t matter what we do next.

Because even though 1982 me is looking straight at her incredibly gifted friend and actual photographer, Myrosha Dziuk (, it took the next 38 years for the image on the left to be true inside.

And you should not doubt that you made it true before I believed it.  And it was because you believed it, I finally decided to find out for myself if I could see it, too.

There were so many things 1982 me had to hide from, lest her intrinsic unworthiness be revealed.

Now that I am grey and bald and portly, though – nothing inside is hidden. Those thick petal wings unfold and unfold, as I listen to you make up a little ditty that rhymes with “I like You,” while you rummage for something you need Over There.  Surrounded by your wide, beaming smile, it is easy not to worry – even though I am nervous, too.  Because I trust you wholeheartedly, and risk is what makes trust so sweet.

It is absolutely too late to undo the beautiful thing that’s become of me, since I got to know you.


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