My historian of who I was in my early years. In the years I became the many faces of Donna/Dona. He will turn 80 next year. He called tonight and he usually reminds me of who I was and who I am. When your old being on the “comeback tail” to make up for over a year of our lives being taken away from us in 2020. The passion in your mind abounds. When you are old every day, every year is precious. He remembers more about me than I remember about myself. As I capture what I have chosen for the summer ahead as well as recalling a year of tragedy for people I have lost. I will not see the woman across the street anymore. Fighting her fight in this past year was too much. On and on and I want to capture the moments of my past. I built my own little empire in my hometown and when I came home from England I was making a splash with another pretend accent. British and French fun were just for fun. However my exploits were serious when I began moving forward.
My Husband today told me Clint Eastwood now in his 90’s he wouldn’t admit to how many children he has fathered. Is it really anyone's business? How shall I leave a legacy of my own as I parent myself in expressing my commitment in my life now. Writing for myself and leaving a memoir for my son, who had asked me to do this. Will I have a small legacy as I do for my mother who I made an ethnographic fill of. It was on VHS which required transfers to CD’s and now I want a commuter digitalization copy. Will I be able to create my treasure trove of history of my own when I am gone?
Will I assure myself every time the voice of can’t arises, telling me I am too old to have this ambition. I am going to give it all I can and how the universe will support me with wisdom I don’t pretend to forecast.
