Plastic Stars.

Tiny orbs of yellow-green light shine into tinier brown eyes. The white popcorn ceiling is black with the darkness of an eight o'clock bedtime. Beneath a rainbow comforter and on top of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sheets, a tiny mind stares at the platic stars above and holds onto dreams of a future life with the same intensty that the adhesive gum holds the constellations in place against the pull of gravity. Eyelids drift open and closed as they picture exploring Europe, knowing languages learned in the far distant era of high school. The tiny legs, with scarred knees from unhesitant games of tag plan to climb mountain ranges in Tibet and pedal bicylces in France. A belly grumbles from a bowl on Spaghettios not big enough and wheat bread spread with Country Crock while it begs for the delicacies of lands like Italy, Spain, and the vastly intriguing... Chicago. In the darkness, the small hands are raised and beneath the glow in the dark stars, they conduct an orchestra in front of thousands, fingers dancing to the tune as it is created in response, head dramatically turning against the pillow as it commands the strings to strum, the horns to blow, and the audience to arise in ovation. The life ahead! So much to do, and it would all be done. This tiny person need only need to wait for the freedom a decade away. Eight to eighteen and then the world would be claimed, the adventures would never cease, and all that was imagined would be realized.

Thirty years later. 

Tiny orbs of yellow-green light shine into large brown eyes with wrinkles at the edges. The white plastered ceiling is black with the darkness of an eight o'clock bedtime. Beneath a buffalo plaid comforter and on top of Toy Story sheets, a tiny six year old body lies cradled in loving arms. Their soft blonde hair pressed against a chin, their head resting on chest, heartbeats matching each others, and breaths wrapping each in an invisible cover of safety. The stars match the ones from thirty years ago but the dreams have changed. Travels through grocery store aisles and to playgrounds took the place of Europe. Spaghettios have been replaced with homemade macaroni and cheese and Land O Lakes gets spread on fresh baked sourdough. The emancipation of eighteen began the obligation of college, the responsibility of supporting oneself, the expecation of adulthood over adventure. A marriage was mandated not much later, the excitement of exploration instead became the promise of procreation. Orchestration of bills to be paid, mortgages to be made, all other hopes and dreams had to fade. 

Yet here they are, the stars and the love. Glowing with the promise of this new life, their dreams still to be realized, as they sleep each night and when they no longer close their small blue eyes under this roof. The large brown eyes now see the blue eyed dreams, their blue eyed future, their blue eyed accomplishments, all they can do. The promises unkept to self will be kept to this child. Happy to be left behind so they can go forward. Willing to stay in the darkness so they can shine. 

Laundry and life

I just got laundry put away. It's been a week of washing, forgetting, rewashing, folding, refolding, piling, placing, and finally put-awaying. I come into the boys room and am instantly exasparated.

Toys are strewn anout. There is a string cheese wrapper on the lego table (impossible since they aren't allowed to eat in their rooms after a singular ant attack our first spring in this house), and there are no less than 5 stuffies per bed.  I get the clothes put away thanks to an easy little system I set up (as much for myself as them) and then on my hands and knees I begin to pick up toys.

A Batman helicopter next to a random Mr. Potatohead arm next to a Toy Story lunchbox.

Baby dolls and dress up clothes with lizards and dinosaurs.

The fire truck once again missing it's ladder despite numerous threats to keep it attached.

Ugh! These kids!!! I dreamed my whole life about this and its so hard! It's not perfect and I should be better. There is too much to do and not enough time and I don't do any of this "right".

And I don't know what it was, but in the next breath these things turned from chaos to treasure as I saw them through my babies' eyes. These are their items, their possesions, they live out their dreams and practice their futures, they trap bad guys and win races, rescue people and run and hide too. This is so far from exasperating, its exhilarating.

I'm entrusted with these remarkable humans, these wild, living, strong, needy, desperate, and miraculous little people. They drive me crazy and I cant live without them and I'm their mama and their home and my purpose in life is to make sure they have good lives and that is terrifying and humbling and I am failing so badly at it but trying really hard too.

The Broken Belonging

I have not one whole piece left. 

Not one. 

There is no undamaged degree of measure. No unscarred flesh, visible, or unseen. The porcelain I am comprised of is shattered and in shards, and its counterpart, also of which I am made, that iron is rusted and crumbling. 

I have been abandoned time and again. By those who made me, those who saw their reflection in mine, those who might have needed me for an organ, blood, or a hug. The friends I have had while my mind and body grew are gone now. On to more fashionable choices. Ones with better toys, fancier houses, thier cute boyfriends. They traded me out like I couldn't trade clothes with them. Six inches taller with hips and an ass at age eleven. Their thin frames and boy-like chests left me feeling bulbous and boorish. 

The males have gone too. I say males because men is too kind a statement and boys too generous. Boys are full of life and rambunctious joy. Men are full of pride and heart. Males are full of desire and desertment. I would not ask any of them back if I could. I would perhaps trade the hours spent writing my surname as theirs, choosing their birthday gifts, cooking them dinner and sucking their cocks. My time could have been better spent peeling paint from a random rotted fence post. I have poured myself out to everyone I have loved only to be filled with their selfish needs. Pulled into a fray I did not create, over and over again, to defend a person who had left me on the battlefield before I even knew them. 

I do not know how to be unless I am being for others. For you. For her. For him. For them. 

I cannot name one person who has loved me in a year the way I loved them in a moment. 

I will never regret this. 

The broken pieces of me are still present. I am still in my entirety even if not one solid piece. I am fragments of every pain and joy and expereience that has formed a kaleidescope of my life that allows me to see colors and vibrancy and movement and shape that others cannot. 

I can lose everything and still have so much. I can be betrayed and still trust. I can be neglected and still adore. I can be discarded and still shelter. 

My damages and my delights have been one in the same. I do not need anything from this world. From you. From her. From him. From them. I can exist in my own mind and heart for all their tumbling down staircases and flying above trees. The moment I was born I was broken. The moment I die I will break others. Repair and replacement are myths put upon us in a way that harms more than helps. I will not wave a white flag and surrender my damages to cause others pain. I have taken up the shreds of fabric, the banners of my life and love that have disentigrated before my eyes, and have woven them frayed bit to bit into a quilt that will wrap others up and warm them, guide them, protect them, and embolden them to love the same. 

Though I was left, I have remained. I know the care I give is with you still. With her. With him. With them. Contact may be lost but I have touched and been touched and the absence of the hand does not remove that. The absence of  a heart does not stop mine beating. 

I am in pieces. All around. Everywhere. In her. In him. In them. In you. 

Pill Bugs

The brightly colored rug in the middle of the room is normally filled with children.

Tiny legs positioned criss cross applesauce and desperate to wiggle and run and flee.

Breaths on necks and fingers inching toward pigtails and aimed at ribcages for pokes

and tickles. A pulsing collection of life nestled together for storytime or show and

tell filled with future executives, grocery store clerks, and addicts. The hopes

of countless adults resting in small children who are resting on primary colored

nylon fibers woven in a circle. 

The rug is empty now save for one. 

Sitting criss cross applesauce on the dot assigned despite the freedom of choice

that comes with an empty classroom. The teachers, soft and mild women who wear

clothes from Mervyns and hair from Dynasty, lean against the counter and discuss

their weekend plans. They are off the clock but stuck waiting for the last pick up.

This one is picked up late a lot, and they know they don't have to entertain or engage,

this one is self sufficient. This one with mousy brown hair spends recess sitting in the

grass, collecting pill bugs from the ivy, naming each one and calling them friends until

the bell rings and they are returned to their cool dark dirt in the shade of the green. If the

ivy is wet, this one sits in the concrete tube and pretends to be a squirrel living in a fallen

tree. Keebler Elf doors appear on each end, and the screams and sand of the playground

disappear. This one is requires nothing, asks for nothing, is easy, is good, is waiting to be

picked up again. 

Peering down at a tiny fist, but the largest it’s ever been, the fingers burn and sting. The

hand is cramped and aching. Numb in some parts and painful in others. The creased tunnel

created by curved fingers and palm is plugged periodically with the opposite finger. The

thumb creates a door that cannot be opened on the other end. There would be escapes

of course, but really the hand has frozen into position there so much that moving the small

thumb isnt even possible. 

Click-jingle-clack-jingle-click-jingle-clack. Small pierceless ears hear the known cadence

of a walk still 100 feet away. The child rises from the rug and retrieves a small yellow

backpack from the assigned hook. The teachers notice the movement and tell the child

to sit again, their mother isn’t here yet. 

“Yes she is, I hear her.” 

The teachers scoff and look at each other in dismissal of the small human so sure of

the impossible. The door opens a moment later and the mother appears. Tall, beautiful,

in heels and head to toe blue. Keys with keychain billy stick in hand, purse slung on

shoulder, large shiny earrings beneath perfect hair. Apologies and reasons emit in earnest,

the teachers assure the mother its no bother as they have their bags in hand and have

already hit the lights and headed for the door. 

Walking down the hall, a paved miniature cobblestone hall that resounds the click clack

of the heels so well that the child hears it so much sooner than the teachers, the child plods

along behind the mother, hand in hand, half dragged and half skipping. Right hand still

clenched and burning. Wordlessly arriving at the car, a red Ford Escort with grey interior

and melted purple wax in the backseat from a forgotten crayon that the child is still held

accountable and feels guilty for leaving. Half heartbroken for “ruining the car” half for ruining

the favorite purple crayon, rainbows forever incomplete, the most wonderful color gone forever. 

The mother sees the fist. Sees the child for the first time and sees the fist first of all. 

A question.

A non-response. 

The question again. 

A non-response because a lie is bad and the truth will results in a tragic outcome for the child. 

THE NAME SAID STERNLY. 

The tiny hand, chubby and sweaty is brought forward. 

A command. 

The tiny hand turns over, fingers still curved and now facing the sky. Slowly, not due to

disobedience but due to muscle fatigue, the fingers practically squeak open. With great

pain in palm and heart the fingers ease open, the air hitting the skin for the first time in

hours, relief and distress all at once. Also all at once, the release of the low estimate of

20 pill bugs. Small brown eyes tear and wince as they view the departure of the family

created in her mind. The curved shiny charcoal colored bodies and grey see-through

bellies scurry their legs over the soft pink hand directed to rest against the decorative

bushes framing the school gateway.

DISGUST. HORROR. DISBELIEF. The mother is not understanding. 

The small body and mind is relieved to be relaxed for the first time since the collection

was made at recess. Through snack and storytime, nap, and free play, potty trips, and

a game of tag, the hand had protected and imprisoned these little creatures, not one

injured or killed, all kept interned but not interred. No one to talk to now. No one to play

with. No one to hold and feel the touch returned twenty fold even if by insect leg measure.

The small heart is broken though. The friends and family created fleeing and disappearing

like the human ones do.

Alone again and always.

The DMV

I hate going to the DMV.
I hate all the reminders of the fact that I’m not trusted to drive. The DMV is the biggest reminder along with my classmates honking and waving as they speed by me on my trek home each day.
At the DMV I sit and watch the little fifteen year olds and the little ninety year olds get or renew their licenses. It makes me wonder when my completely capable self will get mine.
Then it happens.
My pulse quickens and I am instantly sweating. I hear so much noice it becomes silent and I taste metal and my heart stops and then my mind stops and then I’m stuck inside my brain that won’t work right and my body that won’t move at all.
And then, so painfully, I wake up.
Everyone is staring.
I hear the sirens coming for me and I’m crying inside and stoic on the outside.
The fifteen year olds and the ninety year olds stare and wonder what is wrong with me. I felt envy and they feel pity.
“What is wrong with that incapable girl?”
And I ask the same question.
And I get no answers.

I hate the DMV.

The We that will not Be

We have an immovable idea of what love is.

It’s flowers and chocolate. It’s diamond rings and red bows on luxury cars. It’s sex by candlelight and dinners in the triple figures. It’s oysters, fur rugs, monogrammed towels, and long walks on beaches. That love is a special event, sparkling, and short lived.

Love is also service. It rubs your shoulders after a long day. It remembers your favorite brand of potato chips. Love wakes up next to you every morning and kisses you before you brush. That love is relentless, its full time, takes no holidays, and it gets exhausted.

The love you need? What you really and truly need...what is that? Is there a price? A time? A criteria? Do you find it on a website? At a bar? By crashing into it in a meet-cute like all the romantic comedies show us? Can you love and be loved with no promise of the end result? Can you ignore an expiration date and just be grateful to have the nourishment while it lasts? Not a love “that dare not speak its name” but a love that doesn’t need a name. It’s there. It’s different than the dream but its reality is different too. Its healthy. It’s good. Its pure and safe and true, and the fear of losing it doesn’t make you grasp it tighter, it makes you ready to watch it float away like a red balloon in a blue sky. A beautiful sadness that aches but it frees you when it disappears from sight.

No one loves me. No special event love, no serving love, no love of any kind.

Some people need me and it’s their love for themselves that makes them feel love for me. I am their home, their comfort, their sustenance, and they will forget me once those things are self reliant.

Other people lived their lives in a way that mine became tied to theirs. They cast their line and I was not the catch or the bait, I was the reeds their hook took up in error. They pick me from the jagged edge and cast me away, an impediment removed from their true aim.

I am utility, a giver, a helper, an obliging, ingratiating, smiling, bowing, and scraping friend to all, and I am loved for it. The moment I ask for a return on my investment...I am forgotten. Like a line on a To Do List, I am crossed off once the need has been met. Strike me and leave me stricken.

So I made a change; I set parameters, I would be different, I would be flippant and temporary. Surface and non-committal. I would give only what I wanted and take nothing not handed freely. I would place a chip on my shoulder and turn it into armor. If I could not have what I sought all my days, I would have everything else in my nights.

It worked. For a while.

And then you.
Why did you see me?
You looked and you saw me. No one had ever done that. Ever. It wasn’t my body, the size or height of it. Not eyes or hair or lips or teeth. You saw me simply and that complicated every cell in me.

Why did you listen? Not just to laugh at me. Not because I have stories like other people have freckles. You heard me, processed and appreciated what I had to say. Remembered it. My words mattered to you. More than that my feelings did. They mattered to you and you let me know that without ever saying it. Why did you do that?

THIS is what love must be. Agree to it. Please? I beg of you. Please take all this love and be happy I have it to give. You have to be the one. Because there has never been a single other person to care the way you do. You just cared. You cared. Thats what I needed. Thats what I need. But my years on this planet told me it had to have a label, had to have a mortgage, a dinner on the table every night, it had to be love like Shakespeare and Nora Ephron write. It had to be now because Ive lived without it my whole life. My whole life. Its yours if you want it. Please want it. Please need it. Just take it. I will throw it at you so many times you must catch it at some point merely to avoid being hit by it anymore. I appreciate so much that you have given me something ive never had that I must force it to become exactly like what I have always had. Dont love me the way that I need. Love me the way that I want. Then we can forget me together.

Can I be better than that? Can I accept the love that I need? Can it be the love that I want? What am I looking for that you can’t give me? What if I lose what I have found with you in the effort to possess something that will just destroy me again?

I would not be safe with you but I would be protected and I would not ever harm you.
There would be no picket fence, which means no barriers at all.
We would not wake up together every day. We could go to sleep together the nights we needed the breath of someone else in the bed.
I would hold your hand and let it go when you needed to be free.
I would kiss your lips and not say goodbye.
We’d have the quiet and the peace. The other people can have the noise. Lets just sit and be.
You. Me. Sometimes, you and me.
It could be quiet. Official but uncertified. It could last without anniversaries. Everything could be good and in that maybe we could stop seeking better. Wouldn’t that be best?
It would not be forever with you but for as long as it lasts sounds like greatness today.

You wrote a song.

Here is my opus.

What if we just were... we?

Mirror

I stood in front of the mirror today.

Naked.

Drops of water from my shower cooling before disappearing from my skin.

I stared. At my body. A silent stand off between judge and defendant. Pleading the case for more attention. Begging for reprieve.

Unprepared to give it but transfixed at seeing myself for the first time in weeks. Months. Years. Ever.

I did not critisize. I did not turn away. I did not press the excessive curves into more appealing dimensions. I did not cover scars with hands and pretend they did not exist. I did not view myself as a tumescent man would.

I made no moves to cock my head teasingly.
I did not shift my hips temptingly.
I left my breasts bare and untouched, brazenly.

The body before me would not be splayed out for my own or another's pleasure.

I existed for moments longer than I had ever been allowed or allowed myself.
There was no goal in mind, no task to attend to, no event to dress for, no schedule to keep. I did not have to rush past my own existence into a day serving others. a week, a month, a life serving everyone but me.

I asked nothing from the body before me. I did not accept what I saw in the mirror knowing for the first time that there is no ability to accept that which contains no choice. I am. That is all and everything. Nothing as well.

I stood in front of the mirror today.