Walking Home

It's good to be warm. 

I left my friends tonight, but I should have asked for a ride home.

Still in my uniform from work, I zipped the windbreaker up to my neck.

It was cold. And I should have asked but I hate asking. I hate being the mooch. 

They probably wouldn't have seen it that way. But, well, you know,... pride's a bitch. Ain't it?

I hunched my shoulders against the cold. 

Well, it's not cold like New York or anything. I really shouldn't complain.

50 degrees is downright balmy in some places.

But this is California, and I'm Californian, born and raised.

It's so easy for me to feel sorry for myself. I hate that.

There I was, on my walk home, in the cold night, wishing for what I don't have.

A car. A man. A pretty face. A FUCKING jacket. 

This weight, on my back. I know I'm not a pretty girl.

A strong woman, yes. An artist, well, alright.

But, no, definitely not some slick, uber sexy model type.

I've been cut from concrete.

And my love is dependable.

I treasure the fact that my heart is still alive.

Still warm.

I felt so alone, listening to the cars pass me.

Wishing a friend would see me and pull over.

Being childish, shivering in the dark. 

I know this place. I grew up here.

This is old for me.

You know what I used to do when I felt like this?

I used to sing.

I would be five, seven, nine.

Alone.

And my small voice would rise up out of me 

and grow.

In song I was not alone. 

In song I was strong, beautiful.

On my walk home, I started singing.

Oh, I have a terrible cold right now, 

leaving my voice thin and weak, but I still sang.

I used the songs of Billie Holiday like medicine.

Like a jacket, a lover.

I sang past the gas station and the diner,

and my back straightened,

and the loneliness fled.

And I was not what I had been.

I was a woman with song in her heart.