Donuts, Doggies and Dreams

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...