Whistle, whistle, where did that come from? When I was 16 years old, the only whistles I got were accompanied with, “hey dreamboat, not you shipwreck”. Juvenile, yes, but back then boys were pigs and girls were giggly. This was a man’s whistle, deep, low and appreciating wide. Where was I, I was out in the sunshine trying to warm up, my mind full of past due projects still undone, business calls needing to be dialed. As, I continue to go through my chemo I suffer from painful neuropathy in my extremities, while it may be 80 degree dripping hot weather, my hands and feet feel like they are wrapped in freezing cold ice blocks. I seek heat wherever I can find it, warm towels fresh from hot dryers wrapped around my hands, to standing barefooted on steamy black asphalt.

I come out of my business fog and look it around. The whistle had come from a burly, shy, man’s man not known for compliments let alone whistles. I was dressed in dark baggy jeans, two sizes smaller than I used to wear. Lopsided chest, hidden by sleeveless bright t’s over t’s under a short dark bolero sweater. Short spiky grey (perhaps copper colored – I’m hoping but may be just wishful thinking) hair, with long dripping earrings that I flap around and pretend to be my long hair. I look up to see my co-worker and friend bounding up the stairs. He stops and I see he means it and for one bright moment, the world is just perfect and I am beautiful. We both laugh and follow each other into cube world back to our busy little lives.

I continue to write about the goods, but feel the bads may be coming out. There is so much pain, both physically and mentally. But the time is not now…….now it’s a nice memory to know that I was beautiful for a moment.