It is not often that I find my skirt being lifted. Most of the time it sits still smothered and weighed down by disappointment. Left alone I am never bored but rarely does what I overhear compel me to drift closer. I see things of beauty, of course, and hear interesting things from time to time, but rarely do I find myself presented with all my stimulants in one package. The handsome primp the beauty; the thought provoking, like me, seem disinterested. And then came him. I do not know him. He doesn’t even live in the same part of the world; he could be my son. What I find myself dallying over is his honesty, his directness, how he manages to gently say: I like you, Moira. How he knows I’ll be there. It’s not a swoon that I feel, it’s more along the lines of a simple pleasure, like knowing something sweet awaits me in the kitchen or being in the presence of someone long known and worn to comfort. I feel joy in his youth. I feel love for his struggles. I’m startled by how wonderful
mostly gentle, sometimes turbulent