The dictionary defines calamity as an event causing great and often sudden damage or distress; a disaster. Funny, I’ve always identified with this word because I was convinced that it was the most concise description of myself. Something akin to what my late Papa called me, “A Human Doing, not a Human Being.” I often was, and to some extent, am ever still, not perceived as a person, but more of an event. If I wasn’t in charge of the “event,” it seemed inevitable that distress and/or disaster followed me. So, Calamity became an unfortunate yet, virtual certainty; a kind of standard, a default. This revelation led me to believe and inform others, “I didn’t have bad luck, I had no luck at all” and let me tell you, you have no idea how true that is.

How I wish I could be

Something more simple than this version of me.

Not merely a simplistic woman

Just someone less complicated

An Individual that Another could see

Without ceasing to actually be the Me that is Me.

Out of place, removed. Separate, but a part.

Alone, myself I frequently find.

Out of place—out of mind—

Their’s and mine.

Drifting? Always. Always Alone.

Thinking? Too much. Too hard.

Both of which I am unfortunately prone.

But if I could be this other woman

Another heart, another mind, another soul

Would I like the person looking back at me?

Never short of curiosity. Perhaps like a cat

Tis the helpless thing that kills me.

Kills the will within—

Strong, Silent, Salaciously.

A swish, a flick, a quiet racket—

A snap—a sudden STOP.

Hope remains, in all its reckless subtlety.

A Calamity. Yes. This is Me.

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