When I was four years old I was kidnapped by a roaming band of gypsies.   My parents tirelessly scoured the northern California countryside surrounding the family winery to no avail.  They gave up nine months later when my brother, Niko, was born.  Because, after all, he was the boy they’d wanted in the first place.  
    The only person who held out hope that I would be found was my grandmother, Evangeline.  Three years later, through an extremely odd set of circumstances which involved an anonymous tip, I was discovered reading palms at the Healdsburg farmer’s market when I was seven.  It was my grandmother, or yiayia as she is called in Greek, that recognized me that Saturday in June.  I was still wearing the evil eye necklace she had put around my neck for protection the very day I’d been kidnapped.
    “Well child, I can see that this evil eye talisman is a giant piece of crap,” yiayia had said before she promptly snatched me under her arm, yanked the necklace off, spit on it and threw it at my gypsy mother, Mary Alice.
    This three year span of gypsydom, according to my brother, is the reason for my freakish ability to communicate with animals.  It was also the reason my father promptly renamed the family business.
Levitate.  An unusual name for a winery.  Many an oenophile has attempted to figure the reason behind the name.  So far, no one has even come close.  And, at least while my father is alive, no one will.  Most people have decided on the usual and literal definition because, hey, a good wine makes you soar.  We’ve left it at that.

It so happens that I have been handed something I’ve longed for… forever.

It’s not a guarantee, mind you.  I must contribute, participate, be present.

Take a risk. 

That my heart will shatter into a million tiny pieces and spill onto the ground.

I am oh so scared.

It takes a lot of experience for a girl to kiss like a beginner. ~  Ladies Home Journal, 1948

Strawberry or chocolate?

A bit of both, please.

That wasn’t a choice, darling.

Why knot?

Surely you must prefer one over the other?

No.  No I don’t.  Strawberry is newness, sweet, luscious.  Chocolate is familiar, complex, masterful.

I’d say you’re in a quandary, then. 

When I’m in New York City I get all confuddled in the subways.  Without a reference to the outside world, I get turned around.  I don’t know which way is north, south, east or west.  Thank god for the signs pointing me to the proper way out.
I came across something I wrote a long, long time ago.  I kind of liked the feel of it.  It got me thinking that maybe I was confuddled with my choice of writing genre.  Maybe I should ditch the romance stuff and go for the darker side.  I need a fucking sign.

My tired fingers, slick with sweat, slip the corner of the heavy box.

Bone weary and exhausted I stand, helpless, as the box begins to perform a gymnastics routine in slow motion. Corner touch, stand on end, somersault, barrel roll. The final dismount is executed with grace as the box sails off the cliff like a paraglider silently taking flight. 

Carefully, I creep to the rocky edge of the cliff, skidding on loose rocks that go tumbling over the edge, as if in a hurry to follow the box. 

All I can do now is stare at the broken mess littering the canyon floor below.  One broken box and one broken body. I sigh. That man was a pain in my ass when he was alive and an even bigger pain in my ass now that he’s dead.

Today my mom commented on how nice it was to have received a handwritten note from one of my cousins.  I grabbed the bait like a starved trout and felt guilty that I never correspond with any of my family in such a manner. 

The hook sunk its barbs in deeper with, “Your sister writes notes to everyone all the time.” 

When I responded with, “I don’t do notes.”  I was rewarded with, “Of course you don’t.  You aren’t into family.”

And I realized she was right.  I grew up on the road every few years.  I never let myself get attached to anyone.  I reasoned with myself…why bother?  The real reason…what if I get attached and they don’t want me anymore? 

When I grew up, all I wanted was someone to want me as much as I wanted them.  I haven’t found that person yet.  Maybe it’s because the hinges and latches on all my doors and windows are too rusty.  Maybe they can’t get in.

I ache.

For your growl against my ear,
whispering praise.

your gaze refusing release,
demanding compliance.

your hand gently caressing my cheek,
thumb soothing bottom lip just bitten.

the lingering taste of sweet tobacco.

I fear
I have forgotten, Sir.

And then,
you smile at me from afar.