Donuts, Doggies and Dreams

My lap is too small for him now. No more "one more push!" flying high in the swing. No more "five more minutes!" playing in the dirt. Now it's "do I have to?" mowing the lawn or "five more minutes!" on a video game. No more squatty chubby toddler legs running everywhere. No more little hand clutching mine everywhere. Now it's long slender legs who stomp upstairs or long fingers who haven't clutched mine in a long time. black pho-leather that always sent a chill when my thighs hit it wrapped in blankets, remote near by clutching my new baby who refused to sleep watching stupid show on repeat as my legs orchestrated a rhythm  forward backward like a clock don't break the pattern or else the baby will cry sitting in the same position so long that my knees would ache imagine a 28 year old with aching knees. Now, the chair can't hold two of us it's too slender the dirt holds no appeal because it's not electronic the swing c...

 I'm always startled to be remembered.   My name has changed (twice!).  My hair, clothes, glasses, husband, confidence, spirit... yet she knew me. Called me by my dead name but there was something that ignited memory for her.   It humbled me and was so odd. Because, truthfully, I feel invisible most of the time.   Like my stone thrown into the lake of life casts very little disturbance. But then a kid from 20 years ago remembers me and I realize maybe my impact is slightly larger than I know.  Was I able to lead you toward stories? Did I help you define dreams? Was I able to listen without judgement?  Is your writing better? Your creativity more pronounced? Are you able to look in a mirror and love yourself a little bit more?  If so, then maybe I'm not so invisible. Maybe what I do with my day is more important than I know. Maybe loving others really does leave a bigger impression than I know.  

 Like a monster stomping around the thunder shook me awake. Like a frenzied light show at a huge concert the lighting forced my eyes to open. I laid there, surrounded by heat, snoring, fur, listening and watching.  What words do I house in my vocabulary to describe the storm?  A funny game I play to become a better writer.  Isn't that what a writer is? Detailing for those who can't? Being attentive for the oblivious? Pausing life so we can see? So, I began to characterize what I was experiencing: old gossips passing a juicy story downwind.  the soft patter of children's feet outside my closed door. the rumble of the timpani during orchestra practice.  But it can't be described, can it?  Not really. That's what's so majestic about it. A thing that one cannot find words to adequately depict.  I failed as a writer, but as a human--I experienced and that's all of the success I need.