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.