a mother's mistake

there is a scent of hope drifting up from the basement.
it winds it's way up the stairs and settles in the toy room.
expectantly.
it must have escaped when i lifted the lid on the box.
the one filled with the baby clothes we so tenderly folded and put away.
along with all our dreams of you.

it was too soon to start this again.
but i did not know that.
i only knew the longing that your leaving left me with.
i did not understand that months after your death i would still feel you with me.
inside me.
that i would not be able to separate the two of you.
that i might, not on purpose, make him more than what he is.
or you, less.

tears in the night

you are not him.
you are you.

blog drama

i spent about two hours on line today, reading the blogs of strangers, friends, used-to-be friends, semi friends. i have come to one conclusion; i am not as unhappy as i think i am. in fact, by comparison, i am freakin' pollyanna. the amount of angst that i have swallowed in the past couple hours is astounding. i don't know all that goes on in people's lives or hearts and i try to be empathetic but it's really hard not to post something like "get over it!" or "grow up!". in the past couple of years i have lost both my mother and my son and yet i am still happier than 100% of the people whose blog's i read today. that's slightly disturbing and yet, slightly reassuring.

selkie

i'm dreaming about the ocean again.
the vast and the still.
green fists of hair, a mouth of mollusks,
eyes so deep and lungs so full.

please, tell me where you've hidden it?
i promise, i won't go any farther than the changing tides.

every third day off

we will not be thermometers, stilted positions, or phone calls in the middle of the day saying "hurry home".
we won't be pills, vitamins, or shots.
no hormone enhancing,
no sperm level checking.
this part of us will go untouched because i need it to be about the brush of your thumb against my wrist or the spread of your shoulders.
i might cry every 21 days and you might be witness to that but it won't be because the rumble of your voice has stopped making my body hum.

can you lift me up before i drag you down?

if it were really, truely, possible to kill time, i would have murdered yesterday.

dearest sweetheart, the bread is on the top shelf.

i hurt you and i was too proud and obstinate to put my hands up.
i said "go" and "i don't want you here."
but what i meant was,
"i'm an idiot" , "i didn't mean it" and "forgive me, please. i love you."
i don't know how my words get so garbled on their journey from my heart to my mouth.

annoying myself

i wonder if i'll ever be able to state things simply and concise.
like my love for you.
not spelled out in naughty trails leading through the house.
but just here.
naked and in your face.

does it really matter?

it's the kind of question i ask myself a million times a day.
at least.
when i'm staring at numbers and figures.
at pages, at mirrors.
when the slights sting and the well wells up.
then i start to wonder.
about schemes and pictures.
about grand canyons, the internet, countless movies i've never seen.
sand.

life after your life

it's like this. it's not standing still. it's not folding hands. it's not allowing one quiet moment because if you did, if you allowed that, then what? it's beavers and bees. it's lava and ice. it's hurtling full speed towards moving objects and throwing yourself off planets. it's shifting from foot to foot. always running. one way or another.

just another wednesday

courage.
just some courage.
and if he taught me anything...
deep breath.
look.

the blanket that held his warmth.
the sleeper that holds his blood.
the bracelet that bears his name.

i can't breath.
courage.

the hat that covered his head.
the box that holds his ashes.

what's left of my son is dust.
in the box.
little bones.
tiny red hairs.
is this courage?
are great, gulping, breaths courage?
is it courage that hides the box away?
under my nightgowns?
below the sweaters?

i wish i was capable of so much more.

saturday

some days are harder than others.

golly, i really miss that cd.

there once was a fella named alex
who borrowed my gorillaz cd.
"alex," i said "just buy it."
"why, when i can get it for free?"

yes

"do you want to try again?"
i look at her and she is all kindness. i see it in her eyes. this woman cares for me. she cares for me in the same way she cares for my body. checking things over. making sure everything is back to the way it was. before.
"do you want to try again?"
i wonder what she would say if she knew how her words kill me.
implying failure. my son was not a failed attempt at anything. he was not a mistake, accident, or trial. he was who he was, and for the two days that he lived he changed my life more than most people could in a hundred years.
"do you want to try again?"
i do not tell her any of this. she means no harm. she cares for me, the same way she cares for my body. everything in it's proper place, performing it's proper function.
"yes." i answer.
simply, "yes."

alone again

why is it that no one ever addresses the dark side of christianity? am i the only believer who lives with broken fists?

an abandoned woman

bubblegum and cherry pop!
this is what i'm not but, that's not the problem. the problem i have lies with those who over simplify complex issues. there is no rose growing from out our palms and surrender is not opening the hands and letting a butterfly free. it's not. it never will be. no matter how much we would like it to be.

it will always be: bloody knees and tears on tired faces.
grim mouths and white knuckles.
pounding feet fleeing and chasing.
it cannot be anything else.

silent acceptance is always accompanied by racing thoughts. the spirit is not still. desires do not cease. we reach, we strive, we bargain and plead. this is us. this is me and i'm ok with this. i'd rather be a complex wine than an artificial, overly sweet and sticky soft drink.

it can't get any worse, knock on wood.

Bang. let's start out the new year right. fresh and ready to fight.

the mirror fell off my door.
i have to laugh. i think at this point i will walk under a ladder and beg a black cat to cross my path. do i even believe in luck? good or bad?

life. crap. the stuff that you step in. falling from the sky "splat" on your head after you've just washed your hair for the big night out where the engine light comes on and the tire goes flat on that road that's miles from anywhere and the nearest house is a 2 mile hike across muddy corn fields in 3 inch heels and it turns out the house has been abandoned for months and the phone lines been cut.

is that bad luck? or just an opportunity for growth?

i'm sick of growing. i want flowers behind my ears, slender legs under a flowing skirt. how about kool aid lips and a slip and slide? i remember an apple tree in full bloom that i climbed with a book and a blanket. how about it? an ocean view from our sleeping bags? a giggle and a kiss?

i'm so damn tired of bursting into tears.

spooning

once upon a time i would curl against your back with my arm draped around your waist, my hand on your heart. i could feel it beating. you were warm and comforting. as my belly grew, this position became the only way we could be comfortably close. i would press against you and say "did you feel that?" as the baby kicked against your back. i wanted to share his life with you and, as if he knew, he would wake up in the night to greet you.

now in this position, i feel no comfort, no warmth, no shared joy. there is only the reminder of the betrayel of my flesh. my empty core. my silent son.