Spared

I burn my ship.

Avoid the rocks,

the wake,

of the untruth that

I refuse to cargo any longer.

Deception’s death

in smoke and sacrifice.

And yet I see another set of sails.

Silver lined and

stars and ocean salted air.

Stirring hope from the ashes.

Advertisements

Maternal

I want to get a honey bee, below my ear, I tell her. It’s what I call her. She reminds me that I already have her name tattooed on my right forearm.  I know, I reply, but I can’t help it.  I love you.

Last night, I learn, she is sick.  Her usual come fall please God don’t let it turn into pneumonia again cold.  I miss her fiercely, wish to heaven I could be there with her, and dream of an inky moon and stars.

Shelter

Years ago, rain soaked,

she took a seat next to him on the bus,

and he offered to hold her wet umbrella.

Years since,

weathered,

she is, always will be thankful

for those who were, who are,

umbrellas.

Cosmetic

Wait, I am pleading with myself.  To stop, and please turn back before I move on.  Leave her behind for good.  I know where she is, where to find her.  Where I saw her last.  Because I need to give her something. 

Out before the sun is all the way up. Walking, wearing sunglasses of course, because this new day blue sky forecast is bright.  And wearing Barely Bitten on my lips, because I always wear lipstick.  I’ve fallen in step with my routine.  The same route, because I can get lost in my thoughts without any actually getting lost kinds of worries. I am passing by an old abandoned school, though lately it is clear the school is abandoned no longer.  Signs of some great work in progress.  Electricians, and plumbers, and general contractors, judging from the trucks and vans parked along the street.  Sturdy iron fencing, and parking lots repaved black and smooth, and lights glowing inside classrooms.

I have a hide-a-bed sofa, covered in a black with dark green leaves fabric that I loved from the minute I saw it, only to realize years later the why is that it reminds me of Hawaii.  I sit on my Hawaii sofa, and wait for the mail carrier to arrive. I am wearing freshly applied lipstick. Not to impress him, no. But because I always wear lipstick.  I wear it for myself.

The reclaimed school is looking almost brand new, and I am struck, once again how by large measures, certainly, but small as well, mowed grass and mulched chrysanthemum planted flower beds, washed windows and swept walkways, this formerly forsaken cast aside has been revealed for what it always was. Something of value.

She was me. In another era, lifetimes ago, rivers of promise hanging in the balance alongside eroding hope. And I find her where I left her.  Standing on the shore, toe to toe with the water, toe to toe with her misery. Pockets full of stones.  Here, I tell her as I approach, my hand outstretched, handing her my Barely Bitten. A small thing, I am realizing. But it’s a place to start.  A place that leads to letting go and leaving. To leopard keys and lifelines and a new lease on life.  To a place of pretty lace and tight laced leather and learning to love yourself, and in spite of backlash black lash tears, learning to laugh because there is light at the end of the tunnel.  And most of all, to a place of uncovering something long forgotten. Worth.

Reason enough, to empty pockets of stones. Even without lipstick.

Imagine

Another cup of  tea, thank you yes and sugar would be lovely.  Another after another after another. 

Because of course buttons can be anything. 

And I could never refuse them. Especially on this day of days.  First day of school ever,  in all of the first days of school-first days of everything-to come.  Besides, five year olds truly do make the sweetest cups of tea.

My daughter was barely past her first day of kindergarten on 9/11.  Another day of days. It was just beyond all button tea imagination. 

It still is.  For many many reasons.

But especially, for heaven’s sake, because of the children.

Another cup of button tea, thank you yes and sugar would be lovely, and if only, if only, we all could try be a little bit more like five year olds.

Missed

Moving on

was never about

how long

I’d held on

when I was wrong.

Letting go

was harshest

when I was just

So close. So close. So close.

but no cigar

to finding right.

23

This day, today. My one time only, once.  In a lifetime long since past. White heels day. Yet seasons turn sometimes, from summer. To fall, to winter. And so today. Black heels day. From this life forward, come spring.