I wonder how those adjustments that seemed so large, so insurmountable, so suffocatingly huge, have now whittled themselves down to the mundane and daily annoyances of a busy and strange but manageable—and, surprisingly—enjoyable little life.
I wonder if the fuss is ever worth it. In my gut, I know it isn’t. So why can’t we stop ourselves right from the get-go? I wonder that too.
I wonder how this will all end. I wonder will I truly be a better person at the end of it. I wonder will it be worth all I go through.
I wonder whether my mother knows, truly, fully, how very much I love her, how sometimes that love feels as raw and strangling as a broken heart. And now, especially now, it is overwhelming. And how I cling to that love for support and friendship?
I wonder what his hair feels like at day’s end, after he’s already shuffled his own hands through it a dozen times.
I wonder if more words are necessary, or if we have said all we need to say, and the rest will go unspoken, unwritten, undone. Personally? I’d prefer the latter.
I wonder how Texas smells and tastes and sounds outside the airport, the hotel, the conference rooms, the walkways and hallways. Take me to the rodeo, boys. Take me for a ride.
I wonder about my own capacity to change yet again, to “embrace” and to “adjust accordingly” and to “stay strong” against the fast and heavy current that is my life. I wonder how many times I will face the same task. I wonder if I will ever be good at it.
I wonder about my father, because I miss him. I miss his gentle manner, his funny one liners, his sense of character. And I wonder when I will go home to him.
I wonder, with a pang, when I will walk my way to the Caribbean next. And New york, and Denver, and the Outer Banks, and all those wonderful places that I love so dearly.
I wonder what’s ahead; and I hate this wonder, because it is hard to even think beyond the chaos of this present moment. But I wonder anyway.
I wonder if I will ever have anyone to call my own. I wonder if there will be someone to return my love, and hold me in times of wonder.
I wonder who’s reading, who cares.
I can’t help but wonder if he even thinks he did anything wrong. If it even registers in his mind, or if he is truly so disturbed that his mind is free. But I know.
Really, the wondering is wasted time. Because we always know.
We’re just too damn scared to face it. And again I wonder why?