Donuts, Doggies and Dreams

 He screamed during the night a panicked, throaty undoing. I ran to him, leaving my brain on my pillow and you followed me right behind.  He lay swiggly on the floor rocking sporadically and yelling and crying. He asked us to kill him through his screams. My heart raced and my brain found my body, questioning what to do. After a seemingly eternity,  he returned to us.  Now, he sobbed from embarrassment and terror, yet unfamiliar with exactly what he had done or said. You scooped him up like a newborn and rocked him like you used to ten years ago. But this time, his toes dragged the floor.  But he let you!  You sang your made-up lullaby and his cries were soothed.   My heart expanded as I watched the scene, feeling so grateful that you are my partner,  that you are his father.   You are the best kind of man--solidly built, meat eating, whisky drinking, cigar smoking, intelligence with an artistic vision and kind heart.   He...

I really love mint tea with a scoop of sugar heating up my favorite purple mug that holds a shit-ton of mint tea.  I love encircling the mug with my hands, warming them. I love watching the slight ribbons of steam escaping from the top. I love the minty-sugary smell emanating from the mug. I love the quiet, early mornings, sitting on a couch, a fluffy blanket on my lap, cuddly puppy glued to my side, and time for my thoughts to roam wherever they may.  I love the rainy, thundering days of looking out my window and watching the drops hit the deck and shudder as each booming thunder clap erupts. I love the sunny, windy days sitting in my chair, watching the leaves dance in the wind and the birds gathering for their daily meeting.  And my mug of hot mint tea accompanying me through it all.  

 I saw you in a picture the other day. I had to zoom in to make sure it was actually you because you're old and rusty. You were smiling and it made me angry.   Would you be smiling if I was able to tell you how my life changed because of you? Would you be married with your own children?  Would you be allowed to be alone with a child if they knew? How you lured me into your room and I went willingly because you were so much older and cooler.  I felt special because you took time to pay attention to me. Your blankets were waded in a pile on your bed and clothes were strewn around but I thought it was wonderful because it was a teenager's room and I had never entered one before. You had me sit on your bed and then began tickling me, which was innocent at first.   But then, your hands "tickled" places they shouldn't have.   And I froze.  I just laid there in terror.  I could have yelled and any number of people would have checked on me....

 Her hair is mussed in the back remnants of an active sleepy night time. She is framed by the window--brightness sneaking into our black hotel room. She stares out the window as I stare at her. My heart expands and grows...if that's possible.   Seeing her in her growing, maturing body but still with the ruffled hair-- I ache. She is both parts older and younger. And I am both parts nostalgic and excited. She's my baby.  She will always be my baby. But she is also her own. And becoming more so every day.  It's watching her at the orthodontist, her hands clasped in worry...just like I do. It's watching her in taekwondo, with the soles of her feet flying through the air in an arc. It's her pouty face full of attitude when she is being forced to do something she doesn't want. It's her squealy "Thank you, Mom!" at the drive-thru at Sonic as an ice cream shake is passed her way. It's talking about her crushes and her childish plans of what her weddin...

 I cleaned out your sand box today. Toys faded and crusted, like what you see on the show Hoarders.  I smiled as I held each cup, each shovel, each mold that you used to create masterpieces. How many hours did you spend, sitting in the shade of our trees, your toes digging in deeper to the cool sand. I wiped tears off of my face as I remembered the mountains you erected with your construction trucks. And then one day, it was the last. Too bored? Too big? Too cold?  If I knew that day would be the ending, would I do anything differently? Even as I celebrate the pre-teen-you, my heart aches with sadness over losing the child-you. I wanted to memorialize each and every one of those little trucks. Place them on the mantel as an alter of days gone by. Instead, I placed them in a trash bag and put them on the curb.   I wish I could go back to that last day and whisper in my ear, "One day, those beloved trucks will be discarded and you will place them in the trash. So,...

 I still cry every time you leave for more than a day. Like a little girl, tears running down my cheeks. I love the exact color of your eyes and the wrinkles surrounding them that continue to deepen. I love how you try to pop your back by bending at the waist-- all of the time, even at important events. I love making off-color jokes in front of our oblivious children and then catching your eye and seeing the barely-there smile on your lips. I love when you poke fun of me and how you'll let me poke back. I love how you keep your word and can remember whole conversations word for word. I love rubbing my hands up and down your arms and feeling your coarse hair. I love how you massage my nipples--just right--and how aware of my pleasure you are. Our bed will feel like the entire ocean with only me to navigate it.  Our house will feel silent and empty even though there are still people here. Dinner will feel perfunctory instead of fun and adventurous.   Life is missing wh...

I was married to him for 3.5 years, which seems like nothing compared to the 13 years with you.  But I still remember his birthday and our anniversary every time the calendar shows it. I still remember what his fingers felt like laced through mine. I still get a little silly when I think about that first kiss in the fog with him. Traces of him still remain, even after 14 years of showers and living and actively trying to forget.    I so much want to be a virgin bride for you--untarnished. Yet here I am.   And I know that I am a complete person, unlike the metaphors I heard growing up in youth group about how my heart isn’t whole anymore or some other bullshit but I really hate that he took so much from me.  That I blindly followed him and allowed him to take so much from me.   Marriage is an act of faith because you really don’t know who you’re marrying and for me, my act of faith exploded in my face.  I saw glimpses, but I was told that divo...

 Her baby boy, son, was convicted of sex crimes. People pulled away in horror anytime they saw her. Whispered behind her back, "Do you know what he did?" People who claimed to love the sinner, stopped loving her. So, she hid.  Content to commune with her plants. Watering them every day, pruning, fertilizing, adding supports. It's how she raised her son.   Do what needed to be done to raise him so he would shine. And look what he did with that. She doesn't talk to anyone anymore. There is too much grief, shame, revulsion in herself. She is only visited by her son's children. They bring energy, laughter, a break from the mundane.   Grandchildren don't fault the grandmother for the mistakes of their father.  I was slow in learning about what my neighbor was going through. Once I knew, I played dumb.   Waving at each other as we watered our plants.  Discussing landscaping ideas and names of flowers. My daughter loved to play with her grandch...

Steaming teacups with painted dog faces. Early lonely mornings with soft light and quiet. Words that flow through emotion and experience and land perfectly on the page. Voice and lyrics swirling together in the beautiful cacophony of music. These are a few of my favorite things. The giveaway twinkle in his eye as he plays another prank. His thirst for knowledge and tazmanian devil spinning to another topic. His childish insistence on protecting me. Slurping his cereal every morning as he reads the comics and giggles. These are a few of my favorite things. Her leg stuck out, belly in, hands erect by her sides, chin up as she poses for any photos. Leaping and skipping to a new song that catches her attention. Selfless giving of possessions to anyone who needs a little lift. Wrapped in blankets, her wet hair dampening my shoulder, as we tell stories to each other. These are a few of my favorite things. His smile transforms his face as the light laughter passes his lips. The knives chop an...

Could this be my cathedral?  Sitting in the shade on a hot, sticky day, listening to weed trimmers and the pool pump? Watching my dog chase some mysterious foe? Feeling my breath and listening intently to my thoughts? Could this be my cathedral? Towering Redwoods and babbling brook, sunlight and leaves creating its own stained glass on the ground. Silence so deep that my thoughts could shout. Air so clean you felt purified after only two minutes.  What is a cathedral, after all, but a place set aside for the divine. Do I need majesty? Do I need sacredness? Do I need holy? Or do I need now?  Could this be my cathedral? Where I listen to the deepest parts of me?  Where I provide time and space to pray, know. Where the chirping birds provide all the music I need. Where I strip bare the pretension and hypocrisy from within, the girdle that holds everything in like it's "supposed" to.  Where I forget the ideal and the expectations of everyone else.  Where I rele...

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. 

Go, my child, and have an adventure. Wipe away the tears and anxiety, for something new awaits. I will miss you, of course I will. But I am also expectant of what lies ahead. I want to hear about sights that make you lose breath. About thoughts that make you stoic. About people who make you giddy. About events that make you cheer. About heartache that makes you better. About your life that is lived well. So don't worry about leaving me because my job is to strengthen you, prepare you, embolden you to do what the world insists you do. That's always been my job since I became "Mom". And as you carve out your place in the world I will be here, watching, cheering the loudest, loving you more than myself, wondering at the incredible human you have become. July 10, 2019

The neighbor's porch light illuminated the foggy curtains and cast light onto her cheeks--your cheeks--and I caught my breath at the pain and the memories.  The girl cried out during the night and there I was, rocking her back to sleep and missing you. I could not imagine how deeply I feel your absence...every day.  I wander by your favorite purple sweatshirt and inhale the scent that still lingers.  Out pops the toast, a little burnt, and I think how that was your preference.  I take pictures of my children and wish I could share them with you.  I look at my phone, your number, and just want to talk to you one more time.  And I dream about you, waking up with tears cascading down my face.  I miss you. And yet, life moves on.  I guess that's the way of it, huh? One life ends and we continue.  Life continues.  The ebb and flow of human existence.  And I look at her cheeks--your cheeks--and I know one day it will be me.  And then...

 Shed the skin of human and come with me. Adopting the life of a bird. Carefree, flying, free.   What do the cares of people mean to us? Watch as my clothes are erased and I stand as I was birthed. Watch as my arms evolve, sprouting feathers, my skin stretching to form gliders. Watch as my nose grows to a point, as my eyes become more predatory.  Watch as the fat and muscle of my legs slides away and leaves what is necessary.   Watch as my brain reorients itself into a survivor, losing human knowledge and replaced with bird instinct.  And now watch as I practice my first attempts at flight.  I fall; I stumble; I crash but then I fly!   I do it! Soaring over roofs, over human existence, over trees, barking dogs, screaming kids, burning dinners.   I just fly. If my bird beak could do it, I would smile and laugh, but that's my human brain speaking.   What I've known is gone.  It's no more.  And I'm falling, stu...

 I drove in the rain today. Not just spittle on the windshield but torrents.  Wipers on full blast and still doesn't help torrents. Can't see the perimeter of the lane torrents. Go a good 10 mph under torrents. It was majestic and a bit scary, but I guess all truly majestic things are scary. And I wondered at the amount of water but also how that rain, that drop, has been recycled for eons.  Found in a lake somewhere, pushed up to a cloud, to be released on my windshield--over and over and over again.  If we do life right, isn't that what we're supposed to do?   Recycle everything.  Broken hearts, Dreams, Failures, every experience.   We find it, push it around a bit and then release in some new format.   I am certainly not that 20 year old who was anxious, shy, close-minded, hypocritical.   I've had many broken hearts and many dashed dreams and many times of rebirth since then.  But I've been able to use all of it, a...

My grandmother liked me least.  It was obvious to everyone.  Charity or Zack walked in the room and her eyes brightened.  I walked in and she looked for the other two.   But every Thanksgiving, she made me nachos.  Turkey, corn, potatoes, rolls, cranberry sauce....and nachos.  It was her love in a bowl.  Not huge.  Not her favorite, biggest love, just enough to fill a bowl.   I used to love nachos--that's why she made them.  But now, all I see is her face when I look at it and all I taste is the third-place taste of being less loved.  December 5, 2018

Feet aching. Back aching. Head aching. Unclinch the tight belt. Slip on the sweatpants. Exhausted. But then a warmth. A presence with soulful brown eyes and a wagging tail. My hands comb his soft fur and soak in his heat. His tongue massages my sore feet and I feel stress melt away. He knows, doesn't he? He can feel my aching. He knows what I carry. Yet his magic cures me. Strength to go again.  March 11, 2020

 The last vestiges of your existence are disappearing before my eyes.   The rouge hair left on the shirt hanging in the closet.  The memorial plant that is slowly withering despite my attention. The whisper of purple that still hangs in the back of my closet.  The picture of your smile that catches me off guard every time I see it.  It's all fading and I so desperately don't want it to.  I hate that the price of love is this--these grasping, fleeing moments of you.  I hate that because I loved you, I feel this way.  For brief moments, I ask whether it was worth it.  But of course, it was.  Of course it was.  The iridescent honeycomb of the bubbles in my hand.  Snow flakes that dance like glitter through the air.  7 degree wind that kisses your cheeks perfectly to cause heat.  Icicles that grow longer and wider with every dripping drop.  Tiny avian prints left in the perfect canvas of snow.   There ...