I have been strangely quiet, but not from lack of words. They tumble around in my head like children wanting to be born, kicking tiny feet and hands inside my mind until my very brain feels bruised. The almost full moon assaulted me tonight, low in the sky, glowing orange. I know most surely what I want to say, but those words are forbidden me. I swore I would not let my voice be muffled, but that is exactly where I find myself. I am not alone in my cage. Responsibility and reality trap most of us eventually, but not everyone can see the bars, the study lock, certainly not the key lying on the table across the room, so near, but unreachable.

I was in DC last Sunday visiting my friend who is gay and has excellent reasons why he must live his life half in shadows. We had a delightful lunch at a nice Italian place near Dupont Circle. We talked around the world and back, me only half unaware of my surroundings as I focused on this strange friendship we share. The light finally dawns on me that the café is totally occupied by men, and none of them are looking at me except my friend across the table. Perhaps he is pleased that it took me so long to notice. Our relationship is unclassifiable, but he tells me I am more beautiful every time he sees me. Like my husband, he seems to look past the tricks that time has played on the surface of my skin and sees all the passion of a woman’s soul. His reason for being drawn to the fire with in me is a mystery to us both, but it is obviously something beyond physical attraction.

When I was last in Denver a man told me I was elegant, classy, and sexy. He said I was amazing and I waited patiently for him to add, “for your age”. He was not the first to flatter me and I hope not the last, but I just smile shyly at them all and say thank you. I know that when I walk away they will turn to someone else, because their desire is no deeper than tonight, or maybe part of tomorrow. They are gamblers all, these men who live life on the road. They love the unpredictable potential possibility, like the rush of rolling the dice, the gunshot draw to an inside straight. The man I married does not play poker, and he lies awake tortured on nights when I am away.

My friend left DC Thursday for his other life in a quiet suburb of Chicago. There will be grass in his front yard that needs mowing, children to comfort, a life so traditional that no one who sees him would know how thinly he wears the veneer of conventional values. Likewise, the sugar shell of my own conformity gives no clue to what sleeps beneath the surface. I have frequently let it be known that I am not a gambler, but I am a risk taker, one with a finely honed sense of survival. Tonight I draw my curtains tight against the assault of the orange moon and focus on the life I have chosen. The moon nods wisely at my confession, and the river has always known me, but among humans there are but a few who see beyond the things I let them. Perhaps you are one of them.