People are home to me like a rosette window on the top floor of an old building. Softly intense expressions and warm, strong arms work as well as an oatmeal sweater and a favorite chair.
I need things I couldn’t name if asked to, but I know them when I feel them. My Dad’s voice, my Mom’s hands, Johnny’s laugh, Lauren’s hair, J’s profile when I look to my left in his car, the prelude to Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, the sun warming my hair on a cold day.
Things to remember, simply. Notes to self.
Sep 21, 07:11PM PDT | 0 comments
When my parents meet me at the airport, when they see my tired face and weary posture, I want them to smile and squeeze me for full minutes apiece. When I tell the man who’ll be my husband about Andy and J, I want him to throw his arms around me, kiss me, and smile and kiss me again, wordlessly promising me he’s different even though I could never mistake that. When I tell my young children about Marietta and Pittsburgh and Chicago and Columbia and Boston, I want their eyes to grow wide as they yawn and cuddle in, refusing to sleep ‘til I get to the next part of the story, one of the best parts.
Through the eyes of those people will these experiences come true. Though the hearts of those people will mine be healed.
Sep 21, 06:27PM PDT | 0 comments
I met another somewhat fabulous person, a boy. Maybe he’s not who I needed, maybe I’m not who he wanted, but officially, my heart’s been broken and I’m maybe a little clearer about who it is I’m looking for.
Sep 21, 06:03PM PDT | 1 cheer | 0 comments
I'm doing 31 things
