MichelleBenthamI’ve been thinking… And this is what came out:
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Martina Navratilova Duncan sat at the table of her tiny Metropolitan condo flipping through the worn, plastic covered pages of a decades old photo album. She allowed the trembling worn out fingers on one hand to smooth the slightly rippled, protective sleeve as her eyes traced over the edges in these scenes from her life. The thumb of her free hand gripped the handle of a stained, chipped mug tapping out a melancholy rhythm every now and then.
Memories of the stories she had heard about herself began to flood her mind. Like tidal waves cascading over the well built walls inside the dam of emotions welling in her heart. Confusing emotions scrambled then overflowed in gushing, torrent waves. She gripped the coffee cup harder, setting her jaw hard against the tears threatening to fall.
I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to cry. Weak-willed women get mushy over memories – I’ll never be weak like that.
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Read more about Martina at Learning to Dance.
