Never

Sometimes,

a thing needs to get lost,

never to be found again,

before I realize just how much

it really meant to me while I had it.

Her laugh,

her smile,

her scent,

her softness,

the sparkle in her eyes

when I’d tell her the secrets of my heart…

and the fire in them

when I’d tell her the pain in it.

I never expected to have a “her”

in my life.

I never expected “her”

to last twenty years…

Then, cancer.

Three years later,

three years since the end,

I’m more convinced than ever I

never will again.

Sometimes a thing,

like this one,

doesn’t get lost.

It is taken.

Stolen away,

for what seems like no reason at all.

That pain never heals.

Never.

~C.

I wonder…

I wonder…

what is underneath that smile,

what hides behind that sparkle in your eyes.

if you are as strong,

as confident,

as your acitons express,

or if you carry hidden burdens

and an aching in your soul

that only you can see.

I wonder if you are like me…

C.

Then There Was You

My life was crashing

down all around me.

The rubble –

it was ugly

and the cloud of dust it created

was too dense to see through.

I thought I would suffocate.

And then,

there was you…

You saw me through that cloud

when I couldn’t even see myself.

I don’t know how,

or why…

but I could suddenly breathe again…

Because then,

there was you.

C.

Live

LIVE your life.

Be who you were

before the world told you

that you had to be someone else.

Be all the things

life has told you not to be –

open,

forward,

brave,

unashamed,

unafraid.

Be a radical nonconformist,

let your spirit blaze.

Be unrestrained in your fervor,

in your passion…

Be wild.

Be free.

C.

Unafraid

Good morning. 👋 Welcome to this morning’s ramble, which has brought me to the deep, sudden and unexpected realization that in my “oversharing,” I’m not crazy or weird at all. I’ve let certain people almost covince me that I am at different times in my life, and there’s always been a sort of overshadowing insecurity in me about that, off and on. This morning I feel as though, well, I’m not crazy at all. I’m just unafraid to express myself (and pretty good at it, too)…

Last night, I ended up watching “The Monster Calls” with my son, who couldn’t sleep. You wouldn’t think a movie like that would help him sleep (spoiler alert, the mother dies of cancer), but after watching it and cuddling close and having a good cry together, he slept just fine.

I, on the other hand, have been awake most of the night and wondering what I did to deserve such an amazing kid to help me through my own troubles. This morning (as of 4:33, when I’m writing this), I still feel physically horrible (that hole in stomach, you know) and fairly anxious (because I wasn’t expecting the graphic cancer/death ptsd triggers in that movie), but I also feel so happy and grateful deep within. That boy. I just love him so…

After a brief nap I can’t sleep again, so I just keep alternating between watching him sleep and typing away on my laptop, banging out my frustrations and fears and pain into the same, now monotonous and annoying, adjectives and analogies. I suppose it stems from being so bored with what my eyes and my mind keep seeing that I decided to imagine my laptop as this classic Smith-Corona (thumbnail photo) instead of the 8-year-old MacBook that it is.

Oh, the memories… Even down to the color, it’s just like the Smith-Corona my mother wouldn’t let me touch as a child despite my desperation to caress and become one with it. I literally felt like it was a sin to touch that typewriter and that I’d go to hell if I did (thanks again for the ridiculous, guilt inducing religious undertones to EVERYTHING in life, Ma). I think that typewriter is what made me aware that I wanted to write in the first place, and that my oversharing now is some strange, delayed rebellion to that feeling from childhood.

Hashtag psychology, you know?

I was always obsessed with that typewriter. If a child can covet, that’s what I was feeling. Then, when I was 13, my mother sold the damned thing for $40 in an estate sale after my grandmother died. When I asked why, she explained that she just didn’t want it anymore. So why couldn’t I touch it if she didn’t really love it? And, since she knew how much I loved it, why couldn’t I have had it?

The ridiculous truth is, I’m still sad about that… Anyway, now if only I could get my insomnia/malnutrition induced delusion to include the clickety-clack and the ding…

Ramble over… Hope y’all have a lovely, inspired day out there in the world. Make it count. All the love to you. 

❤️😘✌️🙏🏼

C. 

COMA

Tonight my Daddy died, I drove home from the hospital by myself. We had 3 vehicles there – mine, my mom’s, and Jeremy’s. We couldn’t leave them so somehow we sucked it up and each drove home alone.

When I tried to plug my phone in for music, my radio suddenly would not recognize it. Then none of the stations would pick up. Then the CD player would just eject the cd’s and not play them. It was so stupid, because everybody knows music is my sanity. But that night, something wanted me to be silent.

So there I was, driving an hour home in silence…forcing tears to stay in so I could see (it was late at night and rainy – I know, surprise! I drove an hour home in the drizzling rain…). I voice memo’d myself the poem that was in my head, and I talked to my dad. I’m home now. My mother wanted to be alone. Tomorrow is probably going to be shit. I’ve never planned a funeral for the most part by myself.

Dorie will have Jesse. J will be at work. Ralph will be on his way back to Alabama. I will be…physically here, probably consciously somewhere far far away. I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.

Here’s the first draft of the non-rhyming and likely ridiculous poem. I don’t know what else to say.

COMA
Time moved so slowly for days, yet things rush all around me and at me now-
things I need to do
and things that others want me to do
and things that I’m told I should do.
So I go through those motions and I do those things I’m supposed to,
But I don’t feel the movements.
I don’t feel anything.
I only last saw him moments ago…
even though I last saw him “dead.”
Yet, somehow,
it already feels like forever, and I didn’t want to leave.
Everything feels like forever in the worst possible way.
Forever since the ER – the last time I saw his blue eyes open at the sound of my voice; the last time he squeezed my hand.
Forever since I felt his warmth against my cheek as I held his hand to my face and told him that he would be taken care of.
Forever since I held his hand in mine and stroked his brow, telling him it would be ok if he left; telling him I would be OK.
Lies.
Forever, even though only two hours ago, since the tubes were removed and he began to struggle and gasp for air, and I wiped the sweat from his arms and chest and face.
Forever since I saw his chest rise and fall for the last time.
Forever since he grimaced and I watched him leave his body with one of my hands on his arm and one on his face.
Forever since I looked at the nurse and with tears in her eyes and her fingers on the pulse point his wrist she said, “he’s gone, it’s done. You’ve met his wishes, what can do for YOU now?”
I just shook my head, speechless, and said, “thank you.” I feel so stupid for saying that now.
It has only been two hours.
Soon it will have been days…
Then years…
but always, it will feel like forever…
He is really gone…
gone for two hours and I feel my own coma slipping over me, begging me to stay here where I am
and to never forget,
afraid that if I live my life I will forget the most important things…
his voice, his laugh, his scent, his joy, his love…
But life goes on for the living…
All I want is to go to sleep now, and sleep for a thousand years…
not waking up until I’m with him again…
But they tell me that I shouldn’t feel that way; that if I do, I need a pill.
They don’t understand who we were together and who he was to me…
I don’t need a pill; I’m just in my own private coma…
The world will just have to wait until I wake from it.