November Writings: Comfort

"I'm fine" I lie, trying to convince us both, but she hears the intensity behind those words.

"Come here, my love. You need to be held."

"I don't. I said I'm fine. Really." I don't want to take up space with these feelings. I want them to go away. I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat doesn't budge. Goodness, I don't need to be held. I'm tough, I need to stop this NOW.

I look at her through blurring eyes.

"Honey, come here, right now. Sit with me. Please." She gently takes my hand, guides me to the couch where she stretches out. I follow her lead, reluctantly, as she pulls me in close. I lean into her, together. I feel her arms wrapped around me, her lips on my forehead.

I take a deep breath, my shoulders drop along with my tears. This... this trust is new. I give in and sink down into it. Uncontrollably, I weep, knowing it is okay, feeling her rocking me, loving me, seeing me.

I seek comfort and refuge in her arms. I've found my soft place to fall.

November Writings: My Favorite Person

In college I met a fun girl,
who had hair that was straight, not a curl.
We went to the same classes,
we both wore our glasses,
and I thought she was really a pearl.

The Una-bomber taught us one year,
we never were filled with much fear.
He was harmless, it seemed
about roaches, he dreamed!
and his lectures were always quite clear (ly boring).

We both worked at the same lab,
and when free, we often did gab.
Her h forgot flowers,
mad for weeks, not just hours,
Understandably, she was really a crab!

We made pamphlets about birds and the bees
the project brought me to my knees.
But not how you think,
into laughter I'd sink,
It's a project that really did please.

She's my favorite one to this day,
for she'd never just lead me astray.
She has questionnaires, true
asks my dates, "WHO ARE YOU?"
and helps keep the crazies at bay.

I love when her grammar's askew,
(This is rare, unfortunately true)
I point and then laugh,
at her terrible gaffe,
then my own errors, I usually spew.

We once had a blog that we shared,
With limericks, as if anyone cared!
but the password was gone,
no more rhymes did it spawn,
no access left us both quite impaired.

We waxed on once about a dead fridge,
I admit, it amused me a smidge!
50 limericks we wrote,
though I don't like to gloat,
Paths from pain up to humor we bridged.

For years, my friend Sarah has rocked,
even though often times she does mock,
don't know what I'd do,
if she died and turned blue,
For her funeral, I'd buy a nice frock.
(but no make up.)

November Writings: First Love

We stood in that store while he was working on a computer project for his class,
he was my boyfriend of three months and I was the naive girl looking desperately for that connection, for love. It was long before the days of home printers, and he was getting that last minute homework ready for his college class before we went to hang out for the evening. I remember the moment well. The computer wasn't cooperating in the way he expected, data was lost as quickly as his temper.

He slammed his fist down on the table in anger and said with gritted teeth, "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!" Then, as I cowered slightly, cringing in anticipation of anger misdirected at me, he looked at me, heaved a heavy sigh, breathing out his apparent frustration, and said so calmly, "Well, do you want to go rent a movie?"

And with that, I was in love. This person was so in control of their anger, I didn't feel in danger at all, and that safety - that is key, right? That's what makes a relationship, my then-19 year old self thought. I fell in love with him in that moment, but it would be weeks still before I said those words to him. He was my first love, and he was safety like I had never felt before.

We were together for over 15 years. 

November Writings: Safety

Our homes are locked up, fenced off, don't talk to strangers,
be aware of the dangers, we fill our children with so much fear
the unbound joy in the world has all but disappeared.

What happened to the mud pies? What happened to the trees climbed?
Now the branches stand alone, children staring down at their phones
never knowing what it's like to look someone in the eye and say hi,
strike up a conversation and talk without intimidation... or threat.

All in the name of safety, we've become a helicopter society,
hovering over our children on padded playgrounds,
never letting their feet leave the ground,
so they never learn to fly, they never look up and long to reach the sky

All in the name of safety, we've sworn to keep them germ free,
unaware that they can push their bodies and learn their own limitations, and, more importantly,
learn to move, to grow, to push and try, to fall down and get back up again,
and try once more, or maybe ten,
and they keep on trying, pushing and then,
what they learn is that life is worth the struggle, the work, the drive,
it teaches them to STRIVE to reach those goals,
and this play, it feeds their souls.
Children reach deeper with the risks they take, and learn more from the mistakes they make
if we just back off our hovering way,
and let our children learn to PLAY.

November Writings: Stealing

She made her way into this world as she intended to live, stubbornly. She wiggled herself free of those blankets that bundled her snugly, then heaved a sigh of relief and dozed off, waking only to share her needs. Food, NOW, she demanded.

One look into those tiny eyes and I knew I'd love her always. She had stolen my heart, and yet it was always meant for her.

November Writings: Cleaning House

I sift through memories as I clean out the closet in my bedroom. A laundry basket overflowing with my three daughters' artwork and school projects from years past sits in a corner, papers draped over the edges, some torn or wrinkled on the ground. Clothes long ago outgrown hide books and toys no one has missed for a very long time. Partially completed projects of my own are stacked haphazardly on this shelf and that in this closet of memories. Photo albums, boxes of scattered photos, school portraits, and memorabilia from the girls' performances through the years. My bedroom has become the depository for those items no longer wanted and those forever cherished. It is an unorganized mess of memories and donation piles gone awry. I feel wistful thinking about my life and my children, very aware at how quickly it all passes by, as I work to get this room cleaned out.

How much has changed the past 5 years. The layers of change discarded within this cluttered closet, birth books, happy first birthday cards times three, gnome-making supplies from a now abandoned hobby, a series of braces from my youngest daughter's feet, a reminder of the progress she has made, the strong, determined girl that she is. A bedroom, a closet emptied of his belongings years before, initially left empty, it seemed weird to use the space. However, slowly I filled the drawers, the shelves, the closet as his presence faded from this home, of course not from the heart of my daughters who have filled up a new home and new closets, and new drawers with new memories separate from me with their father. I have reclaimed this space as my own, mine with my daughters. In many ways, it is nearly unrecognizable inside this house from when he was here. I love that I have made it my own. I've cleaned house and continue to do so, changed things, reorganized, reclaimed, and now I am taking that next step, making space for the woman I love.

I clean out the now-cluttered drawers and closet space with excitement and overwhelm at this new life before me. There are many unknowns, but so much potential. What new memories will fill these drawers, this space? The happy blended family I always dreamed of? I close my eyes and remember holding her hand as we drive down the road. I smile thinking of our playful conversations, and curling up together on the couch. Will this be my new reality? A partner with whom I can truly be happy, share with? I believe wholeheartedly that this is true, and yet we are trying to be realistic and plan ahead for those challenging moments as much as we can. My daughters are intrigued and hesitantly excited at the impending changes, although my youngest is definitely less excited than the others, nervous about sharing her space and losing time with me. I reassure my youngest daughter often, and will make a point of spending quality time with her.

This closet, these drawers, my clutter holds memories of my lifetime with my daughters. I look forward to filling my closet, the drawers, and most importantly my heart with more memories of a life I own, a life I share with the family I love. 

November Writings: Bleeding

There was never any blood that I remember from that deer strung upside down for slaughter on the tree every November when my then stepfather brought it home from his hunt. I'm sure there was some initial processing of the deer prior to bringing it home. I honestly don't remember it bleeding, but from the things I witnessed, it seems like their should have been.

My stepfather was a church-going, wife-beating, asshole of a man. He had a quiet, gruff voice, and the look of the devil when he got angry. My mother met him when I was in third grade. By fourth grade, they were married. My stepfather had a habit of beating the shit out of my mother, and somehow always relating it back to something I personally had done. He always reminded me that it was my fault. "I hope you're happy with what you've done," he told me.

Blood on the hands of a child, bruises on the body of my mother.

I knew then that I wasn't responsible, yet that went somewhere inside me. It's hard to wash away that stain of blame from one's soul. I mean, no one forced his fists onto my mother's body, but I was admittedly extra grumpy one day when it happened. Perhaps if I hadn't whined about having to load up more packed boxes for an impending move. If only I had just eaten the venison laced chili without the tears and complaints on a different occasion. Just maybe, had I remembered my place upon returning home from a wonderful month of joy and safety with my grandmother, if I had kept my mouth shut, it wouldn't have caused the chain of events leading to him pounding his fists against my mother. 

There was never any blood that I remember on my mother, left broken in the family room floor, bruises across her body, tears streaming down her face. I honestly don't remember her bleeding, but from the things I witnessed, it seems like there should have been.

Every time they fought, every time he escalated it into physical violence, he would end the discussion by cleaning his guns. One by one he would lay them out on the coffee table. Assembling them, loading them, handling them, polishing them. It was another form of intimidation, of course.

I always wondered, fear pounding loudly inside me, which gun it was that killed those deer strung up outside on the tree every November.

I always wondered which gun it would be that killed us, as well.