I’ll be the first to admit it it. I am a worrier.
And I worry most especially about those for whom I care deeply. But sometimes, I worry about people I don’t even know. Like the elderly woman at Goodwill yesterday, who was unjustly reprimanded by an insensitive and overly zealous clerk for taking her cart into the dressing room area and then having more than three items to try on. (Seriously?) I, in fact, anguished about that woman the rest of the afternoon, hoping her feelings had not been too hurt, or her day completely ruined, by the experience. (Mine probably would have been.)
Of course I worry about Amy. And as the time of her leaving nears, I expect to worry a lot more. I can’t help it. Will she get enough sleep? Get along with her roommate? End up with pneumonia (again?) That sort of thing.
If only I could be assured that in the end, life, weighed in the balance, would be found to be more kind than not, I could stop. Most importantly, that nothing so terrible as to hurt or jade my impossibly beautiful and tender-hearted daughter would ever happen. Then I’d stop worrying.
But for now, I simply am not equipped with an off switch.
I used to wear it on my sleeve. Till it was stolen. Something so valuable is bound to be desired by others. I am heartless now, though I am not hardened-I wore it long enough to give and take my share of love. And my hope is that the one who owns it now might do the same.
By way of explanation, when I came up with this I was thinking about the definition of fenced meaning to sell stolen goods.
If only he’d asked her to. Not because he doubted that she did, but because of what it would have done for him, hearing it. That someone, even one someone, loved him more than anything else in the world. How it would have made them more them.
Prove you love me.
Like her uncle did.
Loved a certain woman despite the fact she was everything his family would have objected to. Loved her enough to ask her daughters for permission to marry her. Loved her so much that as a POW, he must have, for four long years, pined for her to the point of insanity while he withered away in that camp.
And how that woman had proved it too. Keeping the secret of their love, to protect him. Sending her condolences to his family, as merely an acquaintance. That must have nearly killed her.
Prove you love me.
But he never asked.
Then again, there’d never really been anything there to prove.
Inspired by the prompt over at Light and Shade…Prove It
I missed the link up deadline, (the story of my life lately) but still thought I’d post anyway.
It’s a gamble.
Still, look over the past, separate the syrup from the bitters.
Shake it up with n’ice.
And throw the dice.
I am not naming names, but now I know I’m not the only one. Though our quirks manifest themselves in different ways, the revelation that we share them similarly was like a portal of hope opening up in my soul, letting relief shine in.
I’m not sure why some of us with obsessive compulsive disorder have such a thing for numbers. Maybe we all do. I don’t know. I just thought that I was the only person whose daily life was measured in the endless task of counting and repeating in an attempt to bring a sense of order to my world. I’ve been this way since childhood.
But I wasn’t. And the fact that this person who was near and dear to me before is only that much more so now is one of those little unexpected gifts in life that keep us plugging along, but with maybe more of a song in our hearts than a curse on our lips.
So as I fill my water glass and pour it out.
Fill it up and pour it out.
Fill it again and finally take a drink-
I raise it to her, and to all of us who really aren’t so different after all.
In my pitch black soul days.
Bottom of the barrel days.
He (as in He) sent me a pretty clear message that He’d not lost sight of who I was, even if I’d stopped believing it.
Among a confusion of empty bottles and cigarettes left to burn down in ash trays, loud music and a bunch of drunk strangers who’d invaded her home, a terrified five year old girl wandered into that confusion, grabbed ahold of my leg-
And held on for dear life.
I think of that little girl quite often…when I need reminding.
(I get up to close the window and change my mind)
I’ve had too much coffee
I’ve had too little coffee
(I get up to refill my cup and change my mind)
I like what I’m wearing
I like what I’m not wearing
(I get up to change my clothes and change my mind)
There are layers of who I might be
There are layers of who I might not be
I must decide what to keep
I must decide what to discard
(And stop living this double life)