After the burdens of learning family heritage truths, William's abandonment and Paul's debasement, it took time to put my shattered self-image back together. Often, I would break down and cry. Instead of being gregarious, I became reclusive. Seeing me so, hubby worried I was having a midlife crisis. I was, due to knowing too much; too much about myself.

With Paul’s debasement, I’d learned the dark side of who my secret puppet shadow was. I’d learned about Mom's past; my older brother was the result. She was sold to a Hawaiian serviceman brothel, and shipped to a San Francisco, Chinatown brothel. I’d learned my mother in law cheated on her husband, called her love child’s abortion a miscarriage, let a man she never loved raise a child not his and destroyed his life to save her own.

How do you inform the family, the central female figure is a liar, cheater, and a serial adulteress? How do you tell them, one grandma was in brothels, the other let her husband raise a child, not his? How do you reveal the central male figure doesn't know his real father?

The insidious implications of candor were profound. Why ruin everything? The truth wouldn’t set anyone free. Everyone would lose, me most of all. The cobweb of guilt had to remain on my shoulders, alone.

Then, who was I? The bitch whore, a serial adulteress caught in the act. Worse, my debasement, the things I did for Paul. Who could I transfer some of my unwanted knowledge onto? Tell Mom? Ruin her image of the good daughter? Hubby, destroy his happiness, the happiness of children and grandchildren? There was no one.

Bubble baths, lotions, perfumes, attire, cosmetics, none could soothe my soul’s blemish. I tried going to church but God wasn’t in to hear my pleas. My husband's concern and kindness made it worse; I couldn't kiss him on the lips. I needed forgiveness but like a spy, I couldn't reveal my secret shadow to anyone.

In 1995, two years after Paul's debasement, I became a grandmother. A joyous event, but one my soul’s blemish kept me from fully enjoying.

Soon after, however, serendipitously, I entered our bank with the office weekly business receipts and met Gabriel. We knew one another, not by personal or business relationships, but by community service. When the kids were in school, I volunteered for school fundraisers and hit on community businesses. I especially hit on banks.

My rationale, like Willie Sutton’s reply to why he robbed banks, was simply, “that’s where the money is.” I boldly told them I came for the one-hundred-dollar check they owed the school. If they balked, I scolded, charmed, and flirted to get their donation, consistently the top fundraiser.

Local businesses dreaded seeing me during school fundraisers. The problem of fundraising is reciprocity. Other volunteer fundraisers return the favor. Gabriel’s bank was good for two-hundred dollars every year but he was also a fund-raiser who then stopped at our office. He penciled out what I collected from him. He’d not come around in years because I stopped haunting him after the kid's graduation.

So, we smiled in recognition.

"Oh, hi Gabriel! You’re at this branch now? How much?"

"I'm not fundraising but I’m so glad to see you again. I often think of you. I admire you so."

Admires me? Because he doesn’t know me.

"Why do you admire me so?"                

"Because you are the most honorable person I know and do so much to help others."

Honorable? After Paul? If he knew me, he’d shun me.

"Well, it's mutual. I admire you too. Why are you working at this branch, promotion?"

"Yeah, they made me a vice president of something with no raise. How's your family?

Better than I deserve.

"Everyone's fine, kids out of college, working, married, making me a grandmother. We're still slaving away. How about you, how’s the family?'

"Girls out of high school, out of the house, working, everyone’s doing okay."

He left out Judy.

"How's the wife?'

"You know Judy. Always searching, dealing with issues."

Issues wonder what issues he's dealing with for him to break eye contact.

"Well how about lunch, so you can update me?"

Gabriel was forty-seven, three years older than his wife. While having a steady bank income he was not well off, only "respectable" with an income which allowed a modest home in a nice area provided he lived on a budget. He was on the short side at five feet seven, my height, but had perfect features making him diminutive handsome. His skin was clear of blemish and he had natural red lips with a slight curl down. He kept his full head of black hair short which accented his pale blue eyes.

If you heard his voice on the phone, you’d think you were talking to a full-sized man. His attire, always unremarkable, was outright slovenly, a gray polyester suit, wrinkled JC Penny white shirt, scuffed black wingtip shoes and a nylon blue tie of outdated width. It was obvious he was stressed. At the next-door restaurant, I tactfully inquired what was bothering him as we waited for our salad.

“What’s up, Gabriel, birthdays getting you down? Judy's happy the kids out of the house but you miss them? You look stressed, like me, not thinking of starting another career, are you?

He stuttered.

"Didn't realize it was obvious."

Hmmm, something big bothers him. He’s devastated, like me.

"It's ok, I keep secrets. Got lots of my own, skeletons too. Some would scare you, real boo-boos. Feel free to unload, I'll help by listening. It's the only thing I'm good at."

It was conversation talk, not a real offer to get involved.

He whispered.

"Judy's involved with another. She may leave me."

Surprise was my reaction, not about infidelity. A surprise because of her infidelity.

She’s having an affair? She’s not that attractive, on the plump side, dowdy even, aging too. She’s an idiot, Gabriel’s already above her marriage market grade. What’s she thinking?

The restaurant crowded, I replied.

"Well let's talk it over after lunch, in my car. We’ll keep it confidential. If I can help, I will."

A chance encounter with an old fund-raising competitor, a simple lunch. Keep it simple, don’t turn it into a commitment. My skeletons are too rattled to help another. Well, let’s hear what’s it all about, my interest’s piqued. Maybe I can save a marriage.

After lunch, I drove him to a quiet area, turned off the car, not sure how to start.

What’d be hubby’s mental state on finding me in an affair?

"Gabriel, how’re you holding up?"

"It's hard to talk about. It doesn't even make sense." 

Well, that's sure as hell true. How'd she slip-up? I've been so careful but some want to slip-up, they leave hints.

"What you say, I’ll keep just between us. How’d you find out?"

"Little things, her anger over nothing, avoiding me, always complaining nothing I did was right. She worried about her weight, started dressing up more, sexy lingerie. Not wearing it for me, coming home late from work, disappearing for long bouts of shopping."

As we talked, I selfishly concentrated on my own issues. In response to his suspicions, my mind mulled over my possible exposures.

Oh God, have I belittled hubby, caused petty arguments? No, only when with Edward, did we argue. I’ve comingled the lingerie, guilty but safe. I wore them for hubby too. No, remember the logo panties?

 I’m not late from work, it’s my skipping out of it. Too much? Did they generate suspicions? Too many absences? Oh, the shopping excuse. I’ve worn that out. Morose too, it’s a sign I’ve done something. I got to smile more.

I started to worry about my predicament as we talked. I continued to pump him for signs of my own “little things”.

“So, she wasn’t caught in the act, you noticed little things?”

He hesitated, then his story became a torrent of anguish. He had suspected for a year but she always fiercely denied. She said he was crazy until he thought maybe he was but then he hired a private investigator to determine who was crazy. A week later he got documented details. The other man was five years younger, a financial loser, tall but not handsome. Confronted with the evidence her reaction was a rage for his hiring an investigator.

Never should have belittled hubby for his suspicions, but what could I do? Never picked losers, well, Daryl, hubby would put Daryl in the loser category. Oh, God Paul!

An investigator, my biggest fear, always tried to keep suspicion level low enough to avoid an investigator. Always assumed there might be one. My nightmare, caught in the act. What if William’s love contacted hubby? She still might out of spite. Too late now. No evidence anymore.

Gabriel continued. Once her anger subsided, his wife admitted her affair. She needed love, had found it at last and told Gabriel she loved him but not romantically anymore. She told him she wanted time to figure things out, then listed his many faults.

During affairs, hubby was always first for me. No, how about Edward?

Hubby’s number one because I’m number one. I needed him to be able to be me. He’s always had my respect because he supports me. I’m selfish. I’m guilty too. I don’t nag, well just like any wife, little things, about how he knots his tie. I'm going to stop nagging about knots. I meet his sexual needs.

As he fell silent, I asked,

"Do you sleep together?"            

"No, I moved to the daylight bedroom after confronting her."

He’s given up the marriage bed when she should. Now he’s a man not milked?

"Sex?"

"No, no, not since the confrontation, before excuses not to, if we did, acted as if she was doing a favor.

Never, ever, let hubby go around un-milked!     

“I'm trying to correct my shortcomings she pointed out, try to be romantic. I tell her I love her, give her time to figure things out. I bought her an expensive necklace but she simply said thanks then wore it when she went to see him. She’s financially irresponsible, spends lavishly on clothes and I expect gives him money. I don't know what to do. I want her back but nothing I do helps."

She doesn’t care if she belittles him. She’s paying her lover boy for the attention, probably some bum with sweet words. Gabriel’s living alone in his basement while she acts the queen bee in the master bedroom. How can he face the night?

"How much have you been drinking?"

"Too much, I drink when she's gone to sleep then wake up at 2 AM and toss and turn until I get up to work."

"Are you eating?"

"I lost ten pounds. You may have not noticed because I gained that much before this all started. I don't think now this is her first time."

Oh God, me with Paul, only reverse, hating myself.

He was crying as his torrent of anguish finished. His revelation resurrected my guilt. It was obvious; however, if he wanted his wife back, he was doing everything wrong. I asked.

"She ever acted like this before?"

"Once but she snapped out of it after a couple of months."

I figured it was her second affair. The first probably ended when she was tossed under the bus by her lover.

Judy was a stay at home mom until the daughters left high school. She then took an office assistant job. What she made she spent on herself but it was not enough to live on. She needed Gabriel to finance her lifestyle, her Beta backup man. The last time I saw her she was fighting aging with all weapons, maybe a little too much based on her makeup and length of dress. She was in midlife crisis.

With my amoral life, I couldn't criticize. I put my arm around Gabriel and his head to my bosom until he stopped crying. As he calmed, I told him I was not the honorable person he assumed, there were sins. There was an Edward in my past but blamed my husband's swinging agenda. I cried too but for myself, not Gabriel. Spent, I asked if he still admired me. He was shocked at my revelation but said he still admired me, maybe more. He thought less of my husband.

Calmed after the catharses of tears I told him.

"You need to change. You're never going to win her back trying to please her. She’s in a fantasy. You need to destroy her fantasy with reality. Currently, you're supporting her fantasy. Distance yourself; don’t let her take you for granted, think about how great Gabriel is. Don’t let her put you down. The marriage with the woman you married is over. Instead of pleasing her, please yourself. “

“I’m trying to bring her back to love me!”

“No! What you’re doing is driving her away. You got to drive in reverse to go forward. Tell her while you love her, you’re moving on, you know the marriage is over and are accepting it’s over.  Inform her you are in the process of and making plans for a life without her. Tell her if she wants to stay married it is up to her, not you. Tell her if she wants to stay married, she has to fix the marriage because she broke it.”

“She’ll just say great, go.”

“No, she wrecked the marriage but she stays in the wreckage for economic security. Tell her it’s time she leaves the house. Tell her to go and live with her true love because she’s ruined the marriage you gave her. Say it calmly. Never raise your voice, don’t engage in conversation. Only talk about the kids, household stuff and finances. If she asks why you don't want to talk, tell her you've departed from the wrecked marriage, the marriage she crashed. Remind yourself constantly the marriage is over and she ended it. If she gets upset, tries to argue walk away even if you need to walk outside. Leave her to yell and scream, alone.

Reclaim your marriage bed. Tell her to sleep in the daylight basement until she moves out as she’s violating the marriage bed, not you. If she doesn't, move her things when she is with her boyfriend. Put a lock on the bedroom door if necessary. Take control of your finances. Only you pay the bills. Do you think you can do that?"

"It's going to cause big arguments. She pays the bills now. She might kick me out."

He needs a total workover. He’s got to go from five-foot-seven to over six feet. Helping him regain respect, may help me too.

"Don't do anything yet. First, I'm going to have you think Alpha, not Beta. Currently, you are only B&B to her, beta backup. For now, no drinking. Watch a movie, read, exercise, go for a walk or whatever helps get your mind at ease and eat and sleep as best you can. You're no longer going to chase her, it's time she starts chasing you. Can you come up with two thousand five hundred dollars to spend even if you have to take it out of a savings account?"

"I could charge it on my bank card."

"Good, take tomorrow afternoon off, I'll pick you up at noon; we’re going shopping. Tomorrow is the start of “AG”, Alpha Gabriel. Don't worry."

Back at the bank, we hugged before he got out. He was nervous hugging in the parking lot but I told him his wife was doing more than hugging and if anyone saw and told her it was just part of the new Alpha Gabriel, Gabriel the Archangel.

The next afternoon we drove to SeaTac Mall and had lunch with wine.

I paid the tab over his protests. After lunch, I took him to an upscale men's clothing store. Thumbing through the racks with the salesman we agreed on a dark blue wool suit costing $1,000 then selected a light brown sports coat and darker color matching slacks which totaled $500. The remaining $1,000 we spent on shirts, boxer trunks, aftershave, silk ties and two pairs of shoes, one oxford formal the other casual which I bought as his allowance was spent. 

The oxfords made him appear a little taller. He wore the new suit, a dress shirt, and shoes back to the car. In the car, I asked,

"Feel better?"

"I'm in shock."

I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. He was stunned but didn’t pull back. I dropped him off at the bank without further conversation. When he got out, I told him.

"It's time to tell her to move to the other bedroom. If she asks about the clothes just say you got them at the Mall, that you need them as you move on now that the marriage is over. That's all she is entitled to know. If she refuses to move or tries to argue, go for a walk, read a book, or go to a movie. Move her out of the bedroom when she’s out. I'll check up on you in a couple of days. Let's see her reaction. Remember to take over the finances. Don't ask her, just start changing the accounts."

I called the next Monday. Not wanting to talk on the bank phone he asked me to lunch, saying he was buying this time. When we met, we kept the conversation to pleasantries to avoid anyone hearing. He wore the brown blazer and looked good in it. His stride and posture were sturdier than the downcast stance of a few days ago but he was still a beaten-down man. I ordered a second bottle of wine. 

In the car, I asked.

"Well, how did ‘it go?"

"She did not comment on the clothes but looked at me oddly. I got the courage to ask her to move from the bedroom. She simply nodded but didn't move. I started changing finances but she doesn't know about that yet. "

"Wait until she’s out, preferably with him and move back to your bedroom. Pile everything of hers in the other bedroom. Without sex, are you masturbating?"

He wouldn't answer.

"It's normal. Many times, I’ve taken soapy showers to relieve sexual tension."

He needs more than new clothes. His libido needs milking by a woman instead of his hand. He needs to climax thinking he’s a man.

I drove north on Interstate 5 as we talked and pulled off to a new Holiday Inn Express. Parked, I told him to get a room and to use his credit card.

He looked at me with uncertainty, hesitated.

"I don't think this is a good idea."

"It's okay, just go in. I’ll go with you."

After we checked in, we rode the elevator to the fourth floor and walked to the room in silence. He slid the card in the card lock and when the green light lit, I opened the door and walked in. He stalled on the threshold but I grabbed his hand, led him to the bed and sat him down.

It was unexpected but a strange sensation overcame me. It had nothing to do with sex. Other affairs were as if I was my father. Now I was my mother, an innocent whore milking a man. Well, it wasn’t exactly like that but it did cross my mind. I wanted to help him, to help me.

Undressing him, he made minimum movements to assist, as if an innocent led astray. I tsk, tsked at the old underwear under his new clothes. He was limp. I took off only my blouse, got a wet hand towel and bathed his pubic area. He remained limp but soon oral and finger simulations overcame the wine and fear he was experiencing.

Despite being small in height, his penis was full length, seven inches and circumcised. His pent-up frustrations soon spewed out on a motel towel. Depleted he lay back on the bed with me next to him. We stared at the ceiling. I let his male ego coalesce then continued re-building his Alpha.

"Gabriel there's nothing wrong with you. Judy should be satisfied."

"I watch porn. It's one of Judy's complaints."                                                           

"It's a common male disease. It's okay. I catch my husband looking at it too.”

Lying next to one another on the bed, at last, I made a confession, a taut, music box, spring open confession. On the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind cranked the handle. My suppressed puppet shadow leaped up and out.

“Gabriel, I've told no one what you told me. I have something to say. Like me, you can tell no one. Listen, as I tell you why I am not admirable."

How to start? Will he talk?

"Did you ever think about becoming a priest, to be Father Gabriel?"

"No, like you I experienced a soapy shower transformation."

"Pretend you’re a priest, hear my confession. I will do penance. Do you know the confessions inviolable seal of confidentially, a most sacred vow?"

"Something’s troubling you. Like me, you’re carrying too much inside. I know the priest’s confidentiality vow and will honor it. You can confide in me."

With his promise, I did what I promised never to do. My sins, not the venial but mortal, sprang open and sputtered out, released at last. After years of suppression, they bubbled forth in a low disconnected monotone, as if the sins of another. I confessed to myself, of course, he the sounding board to echo my words but it was the first time I heard them.

I started with my revealing I’d accepted marriage for security instead of love. Skipped to Gary when the thrill of beauty and a simple kiss as a train passed, caused me to waver.

Then, I went deep mortal, not in erotic detail as related here but by the deeds and numbers, without excuses. I told of crossing Edward's threshold, my transformation into the fantasy of being his Asian doll, the clothes, jewelry, Porsche, upscale restaurants and social status he provided which I confused for love.

I admitted my conflicts with Enrico as manipulations of an Alpha male, not for sex but to belittle and bully him, for my ego satisfaction.

I told him when I relocated to the Pacific Northwest, I tried to reform but failed in a one-night stand then libidinously seduced Daryl for excitement and affair club membership.

I droned on how, for flattery, I let Elliot pursue me as his trophy and instead how he became my trophy, to be tossed aside. I explained facing middle age, I retrofitted and used William as an ego sop and sex toy and being caught in the act and hit with a shoe. I ended with Paul, my debasement and God's punishment for wantonness.

Like a good priest, he didn't interrupt. After Paul, I whispered, "That's it, father. I'm not admirable. I'm tainted."

Silent, awaiting judgment, a feeling of relief swept me, the long-suppressed hidden burden carried inside eased, the secret puppet finally exposed to another.

After his long, silent for digestion, he replied, "Once I'd have thrown stones, perhaps the first. I feel so sorry for your husband. You're a Mary Magdalene, a sinner. Still, you help people, the Good Samaritan. You’re trying to save me. Your sins, while terrible and many, are not lust. Something else troubles you. In adultery, you search for something missing. It’s not for me to speculate or judge. Forgiveness comes from within and from the one offended, your husband. It will take time for you to heal but you must and only you can do it. That’s all I can say.

“Penance?”

The rosary, three times, before Mary Magdalen."

"Thank you, Father."

The penance, meant as a levity response to my heavy sigh, caused no smile. Too lenient for my infractions, I added renewed Mass attendance with the three rosaries to sanctify each attendance.

Back at the bank parking lot, I told him not to hide the motel credit charge, to let his wife notice by leaving the receipt out and if she mentioned it, to say he needed time to think about himself.

She didn’t notice it. That night, after she left to meet her lover, he moved her belongings to the other bedroom and took possession of the master bedroom. He was no longer Mr. B&B. He was evolving into Mr. A&A, Alpha Awesome. The next day, when she did mention the motel receipt, he stared at her, made no reply and left for work.

We became lovers of a sort. Although there was sex it was dispassionate, his sexual tension release to rebuild him, my adultery, an act of charity. I did my penance but confessed no more. My helping him was sufficient for my self-esteem rebuilding. It was always at the same motel. We split payments. I paid cash and he used his credit card. We met only during lunchtime and less than once a week.

It was strange to be in bed with someone my height. I didn’t care about an orgasm. I was restoring a fractured male ego. My satisfaction was emotional for helping him. He tried to ensure my satisfaction but he was not "my type". I was there for a spiritual need, not sex.

When atop, I imagined being young again at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk, riding the Merry Go Round to the relaxed gait of the wooden horse’s up and down gallop and the organ’s melody. As I rode, I remembered reaching for the brass ring, catching it and tossing it at the clown's mouth on the canvas wall. If I climaxed it was the buzzer of a successful ring toss but like when young, it didn't matter if the buzzer rang or not.

When he was ready, we rolled over and he finished, my pleasure only helping him regain self-esteem, which regained mine.

He was trying to save his marriage. I told him he had to be ready to lose it to save it. Under my direction, he had an attorney draw up divorce papers that were served to her at her work. Getting her served at work, announced publicly it was she who was getting divorced, nipping any covering lies she might attempt.

It put him in the decision position. He could move forward or cancel divorce proceedings based on her actions. She needed to understand, he was no longer Mr. B&B, her footstool. My instructions were to act as if the marriage was over, except for paperwork.

As expected, she panicked. Her fantasy haven was not so safe. In irony, she accused him of cheating, true, in a manner. She stopped belittling him, dropped her lover and started pursuing him which she assumed would make him grovel back to her.

With me as a backup, he remained aloof, forced her to reconcile on his terms. When asked what he wanted, he told her she destroyed their marriage and now she had to rebuild it by sending a no-contact letter, answer all his questions, write down a timeline of everything, tell the daughters and undergo an STD test. She balked and attempted hysterical bonding but he stuck to Alpha mode. After a few tantrums, the progression march of divorce proceedings, she caved.

Full disclosure hurt him. Her affair was the third and the first was with a family friend, a double betrayal. Things that he could not make sense of during the last ten years at last added up. In the end, however, after twenty-five years together, reconciliation made the most sense, financially and for the family. They began a new marriage, the old one gone, he a man, she a woman, partners. We stopped visiting the motel when she moved back to the master bedroom.

He had a wife who admired him. Anew marriage based on his forgiveness and her appreciation for it. The bank noticed his change and he got a raise. I changed our company's bank, knowing it was best to leave what ends well, alone.

We both were whole. I confessed, was forgiven and returned to being a chaste wife, my secret puppet shadow locked in storage, mentally trussed in silver chains. Whole again, I was cleansed of Paul. At age forty-five, I started the rest of my life, each day the first.

As she renewed her marriage, I did too and re-devoted myself to hubby. I still shopped for sex but for hubby’s pleasure. We traveled together on business; toured the world on vacations, saw the postcard landmarks, ate at famous restaurants, stayed in classic hotels, the sophisticated couple doing "tourist" passport life stamp requirements while holding hands.

We considered ourselves sophisticated tourists because we’d in the past hosted foreign exchange students. It started as a result of a next-door neighbor doing so.  They sponsored a German student. The wife was the one having an affair with her preacher. Her husband, a Vietnam vet who lost his arm in the war spent his time drinking beer and fishing. They had two daughters, the eldest, the same age as the exchange student. She was attractive and wild. His grades consequently suffered but his English ability advanced rapidly, including teenage American slang.

While fully occupied at their house in extra-curricula activities, he soon was hopping over the fence and visiting our house because he was hungry. It wasn’t because his host mom was a poor cook. She didn’t cook. Hubby and I nicknamed him Fritz and soon he was a regular at our dinner table.

From him, we learned about the foreign exchange program. We hosted students from Japan, Russia, Germany, and England. Our kids wanted to spend a college semester in Europe as foreign exchange students which we granted. Our son went to Germany and the parents of our German host student hosted him. There he learned Germans insisted on speaking English to Americans, learned little German but met Fräuleins.

Part of our vacations included visiting the parents of students we hosted. Once we stopped by Bad Tölz, Germany, to see Bavaria at Christmas time due to my love of Holy Night when sung in German. We reconnected with our exchange student and met his family. The father thrilled hubby speeding on an autobahn and the mother taught me German recipes.

We ate pastries and admired the snow falling to create a beautiful white Christmas outside while we sat snug inside before their fireplace. All spoke English except a lonely figure close to the blazing fire, the grandfather. He grunted in a paragraph in German to all but to no one in particular, talking to himself. Hubby asked our hosts what he said. 

The father replied, “He said he can sleep naked in the snow falling outside.”

Hubby responded.

“Sleep naked in the snow? After a sauna?”

“No, no, he was a prisoner during the war. He didn’t get back to Germany until 1953. You ever hear of Stalingrad, Siberia? That’s where he was captured then sent to.”

I interjected.

“He’s one of the 5,000 who returned of the 300,000 surrounded, the 100,000 who surrendered?”

“Yeah, he talks about it but no one wants to hear about the war now.”

He was left to his memories, no one interested in grandpa’s story except me.

It’s then the seed to write Balinese Puppet Shadows was sown in my mind.

As hubby and I evolved into our new marriage, I also discovered things about myself, material things, not mental or moral. Sitting in a French chalet, sipping late morning tea as hubby snarfed down buttered pastry with his black coffee, before our next postcard check-off, pangs of memory swept me.

I’ve wanted things too much.

Things, their discarded trail is my life’s summary. Desired, acquired, used, discarded, their junk trail, reveals who I was, am and will be. Junk’s my life’s portrait. Where’s my childhood, bike, the 57 Chevy of my first kiss, Edward Porsche which zoomed me to San Francisco, the station wagon with the kids in the back? Oh God, clothes!

My life’s, a trail of things, discovered, yearned, acquired, used, discarded. It’s not the photos saved that reflect who I am, it’s my trail of junk.

At home, with my “sophisticated” recognition of “things”, I swept closets and the garage for erasures. The subsequent trips to the Salvation Army included a silken mini dress and a pair of shoes that crossed a forbidden threshold.

Cleansed, I recommitted to myself, as if just out of an honest confession, to the right side of God. I never suspected future adulteries would outnumber past.