I choose a cardigan the colour of the green moss that grows on the walls beyond this house and stockings the shade of a sky that deems to come every now and then when the mood allows. I put tiny blue earrings into the hole in my ear lobes and shadow my eyes with a navy pencil that blurs like charcoal as the day moves on. There is a bottle of Chanel on the shelf and I spray it out into the air and walk through it like a woman in search of something to define her. I find a hat that I bought many years ago and don it in defiance, a sufficient brim to ward off the years and I walk into the day determined to make it work. My skirt is the colour of the leaves that linger like precious jewels on the Sycamore tree. My lips are a juicy plum, ripe from the tree. Nothing only colour is essential now in these darkest of days.
I skim through the thoughts of a woman in search of something and decide that this is acceptable. I think I know where I am going now. The doldrums are lifting. The scent of a resolution catches in my nostrils and I scratch for it, hungry for the reward. I move on, tentative of my steps, keeping the gear low, using my years for the wisdom I need. I crouch. I hesitate. I move again. On into the new realm that awaits me.
I am excited. Nothing stops me. Only myself if I allow it to. I am reborn. Renewed. I look into the glass and see someone, not new, still the same but different. Like I am shedding something old and redundant. An old skin. The promise of a beginning all over awaits me. I want to shout out but I do not. I just smile inwardly and thank the good fortune god for clearing my path once more for trodding down the gnarly bracken that hindered my way, cutting through the thorns and the doubt and the gathered up bits of bramble that can gather on your being without you even stopping to notice it. To even feel the limitation.