I’m losing words.
I tell myself that it’s a part of the crazy hormonal storm of menopause, without even checking to make sure I have that fact right. It could have been true of only the beginning stages, which are definitely behind me now. And if that is the case, then these moments when I reach for a familiar word and fumble around searching for it in the dusty corners of my mind, well they would then be serious. And what would become of me?
I use words to define myself. They are my only bit of magic, my only alchemy, my music, my artifice, my mask for presenting the best me, the me I want you to see. Without them, an echoing black chamber, a scraped out pumpkin head, a grotesque figure on a bridge screaming with no sound.
In conversations, I sputter and choke. Will I learn to speak less, argue less, be less?