When I am home I throw my cares away just like garbage. I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of my face. I drop trouble like a bad habit. I am honest, rawly (mw) so. I am free, completely so. Why is that?
I’ve never been one for matching the handbag to the heels; the lipstick to the manicure. I never found fashion and if it ever found me it was fleeting and completely by accident. I am not that woman. But, I’m worse on Monhegan. I’m not a woman at all. I am a downright dirty girl wild child when I’m home.
My hair is uncombed for days, dirt always under my nails, scratches from berry bushes running up my arms, scrapes from barnacled rocks running down my legs, sand between my toes. Big bug bites. Strange tan lines. Sunburned cheeks. Laugh lines. Dirt on my chin and everywhere happiness. This trip home I was largely gluttonous and could not get enough. I’m sure someone will think I’m being sibylline but seriously, I am not. This is really how it was (and will always be) out on the rock.
Every morning we would throw on mismatched clothes. I scrounged for a hair tie (okay, I admit, it used to a scrunchie until those things weren’t cool anymore – thanks SITC). I would whip my hair into some semblance of a ponytail and barrette back the bangs. We would fill the water bottles with ice and go. We’d go before we really knew where we were going. Each day was the same. Decipher the time, determine the hike. Sometimes there were missions involved. Need to stop by this cottage to tell that guest something. Have to hand deliver that thing to this house. But, every evening ended the same. Tangled hair, dirty fingernails, dried blood and big smiles.
We moved through the days like this. I didn’t mind. How could I? I had lost the garbage.