her breath; her spirit are mine.
yesterday she told me she thinks she and her baby sister were twins and born at different times and I thought it was probably the truth as I feel as connected to her as a hand or a foot and I can see why she would think about these things.
Saturday, after spending forty minutes listening to her howl and sob; I wondered if she is having hormonal fluctuations, if she is being deliberately manipulative or if she was told exactly what she said and I need to go and flog someone for hurting her because she is and will always be my princess; my first.
I tell her every time I see her and she does not know. She loves her sisters and she cannot understand my heart and may never. Claiming she will never have children; I tell her that would be an okay decision in my book and I want to be around when she finishes college and starts to make those kinds of decisions.
Like me, she has allergies and I worry. I do not want to sleep with her again for a while because it bothers me so.
Love hurts and hurts and hurts.
Writing love letters is a difficult journey.
I send thoughts out into the universe and inside my chest.
I might let someone hurt me if I love them.
What if I am not loved in return?
Love is just not that way; it comes. A face appears and it is as if you have known him in elementary school when he gave a book report, when he ran a class race and tripped and fell and when he received his degrees always thirsting to know more, understand more; do more.
I was told not to love my self. It is selfish. Think of others.
The kindnesses I show to my self reverberate throughout my being; I am able to see other people; almost in shades of unicorn colors before we ever knew there were unicorn colors.
Love is a kernel, a seed and a hug. Love is a smile, a grimace and a smirk. Love is arms wound round the neck, a kiss on the head and a lurch of the heart. Love is broader than the Wyoming skies in early springtime, it is deeper than the snows in Alaska and it is wetter than when the birds hit the flyways in spring. Love is pink, orange and periwinkle blue. Love is orangey yellow pumpkins lying by a fence row. Love is saucer dahlias in red, pinks and lemony sunshine. Love beats, it has a heart and feet. Love will retreat much like the glaciers are doing. Catching it and then it is not caught, teaching it and then it is ignorant again; and learning to love and losing the remembrance of it all as it was so painful I cried in the middle of the night and never wanted to get up again.
The door was not locked.
He told me to stay in bed. I was a toddler. When he left; I told Blackie, the dog, to STAY. I opened the wood and mesh screen door and kept it from creaking. I did not want my mother to wake. She would be mad. He had said to take care of her. I thought that meant do not wake her up, do not make any noise and she will not be angry.
How lucky was I? Playing outdoors until the middle of the afternoon without lunch, I was dusty and thirsty and hungry. The other kids in the neighborhood had shared their food with me. Too young they were to know I was a toddler and needed regular infusions of water to keep me hydrated. As the buses began to roll by on the other streets, the children put away the marbles they had won. One of the big boys made certain I got the ones I brought as well as my takings from the morning. I do not remember his name. He was twice as large as I was so he was probably four or five. All these children had not gotten to the age where school ruled their daily lives; usually around age six in our county. No harm ever came to me that I recall. When everyone left, the big boy told me to go home. Since my mother was still sleeping, angry or gone to get more cigarettes, I walked over the hill to the woman I knew as grandmother. I knocked on her door.
It was locked. A short, petite gray-haired lady came to the white door; oh, my, where have you been, Baby? You are very dirty. Come in and we will get a bath, a nap and I will peel you an apple when your Daddy gets here. Where have you been? Have you been out all day?
Katrina was a disaster.
Of epic proportions.
She lives on.
In the hearts and minds of the people of the Gulf Coast.
Among the tree branches where folks held on to save their lives throughout the night until rescuers came to free them. They watched family and friends drift away right before their eyes.
These people are not broken. The men and women and children have rebuilt, resettled or regrouped. Wounds are jagged across their backs and legs like a tattoo parlor on meth. Licking these sores has gone on for ten years. Inside their heads, in small groups with people of the Coast they trust; they wonder if they will ever return to their former selves.
Hell NO! The sea answers.