Dear Dorothy,
When you reflect on your time in Oz, I wonder what you see? Do you smile on the colorful memories, or do you still shiver from the draft that came through when the curtain got pulled back? I feel that draft still–it got into my bones.
Portland was my Emerald City, full of glitter and glamour, but when the curtain was pulled back for me, I got lost on the other side. Once a dream, a place of acceptance and city adventures, it became endless drab and rainy days surrounded by decay and chaos. The Wicked Warlock of the West shadowed my every moment after our divorce–lurking behind any damp, littered corner. I never thought I’d find my way out, but I stole those ruby slippers and clicked my heels to come home.
Though, the echoes of Oz haunt me.
I wonder if you jumped at the shadows of birds, fearing they were flying monkeys, too. How long did it take for you to stop looking behind curtains because you couldn’t believe the magic you found at home could really be true? I never find anything behind the curtains I check, nothing other than vibrant high desert sunsets and crisp wishing stars. The shadows on the ground aren’t ever flying monkeys, just stellar jays. And sometimes I wonder, maybe it’s time to stop waiting for the other house to drop. Sometimes I forget I’m not in Oz anymore –I’m home.
Unlike Oz, the sparkle to Bend doesn’t turn into grime and rot the closer you look, it just gets brighter as it reflects off the river. The only curtain here to pull back is on the window of the cute little apartment I now share with my boyfriend who followed his yellow brick road to Bend, too, until it collided with mine.
As the emerald that insisted upon itself fades from my days, replaced by the blue speckled evergreen of juniper trees that match my boyfriend’s eyes, as the bricks on my path change from yellow to volcanic tuff, as shadows make me look up and smile instead of hide, as Oz turns into nothing more than a distant echo, maybe my Toto and I can take this new world in stride.
Oz wasn’t a mistake, I learned about my own rainbow in technicolor. And now I carry those colors with me as I step off the yellow brick road and into the sepia of the high desert. Though, with that said, you won’t catch me dead near another tornado.
Forever yours,
A Friend of Dorothy
