72 hours til launch

The time is almost upon us, and I'm not ready. I'm speaking about the Femme Fantastik Tour. I've got clothes all over my bed, the unlucky discards on the chair. Shoes cover the floor divided into various piles for comfort, style, and the ah factor. MAC make-up lines my dresser for final selection, but the clothes have to come first, so they wait, lids up ready to be chosen and dropped into the traveling bag. I keep looking at the essentials in a bag in the sink, knowing I have to verify everything against my travel checklist one last time, but can't just yet.

Too much is in my mind. I still have Galley's to read, a manuscript due, two annotations to write, and a book to read, revisions to complete, and. . .I keep thinking of the young people I'm going to meet on the road. I keep seeing their faces, hearing their voice. Their quick smiles. The light in their eyes when they find out I'm a writer. I have 25 books. But it's not that. I don't want them to know me that way. I want to know them. Why they're in the military. Why at 19, 20, 21 they carry guns. Why they signed their names on papers that said I will fight. Why. . . Why???

I have a son. He's 20. He came home yesterday and I took one look at him and said "Son, you need to get acquainted with an iron." From the tipped up collar of his shirt to the jagged hem of his pants, he wasn't straight. Not a bit of him. He said, "I'm gone slap an apron over this and go to work." He kissed my cheek, gave me that winning smile that's made women swoon since he was in my lap, walked to the car and drove to work. I thought don't give him a gun, he might accidentally shoot me and say 'my bad.'

I've got to get my head together before I see these kids. I don't want to ask why. They might say, for you.


JBM--Carmen