Shampoo

"Good lord! You have a lot of shampoo in your shower. How hadn't I ever noticed that before?" 

"It's not mine. When an ex-girlfriend and I broke up, she left the shampoo here and I kept them in case someone needed them."

"Weird. I have never, in my life, ever left shampoo or a beauty product at a boyfriend's house. Ever."

"That's weird, Michelle." 

I jump in the shower, deciding to skip shampooing my hair. 

I walk into the bedroom and he stares at me, knowing from the crease between my brows that I was over-thinking something. 

"I've never left shampoo at a guy's house. Ever. I might have taken stuff with me, but I always carried an overnight bag and never left anything behind. That's strange, right?" 

"Well, not completely. You're not the type to leave things behind. I'm used to you and your overnight bag. That's just how you are."

"My ex used to keep stuff at the house all the time. It always bothered me. I would put it in a bag and put it in the corner."

"Okay, Michelle, now THAT is odd. Why would you do that?"

"It was like it mocked me, his toothbrush next to mine. His wash cloth in the shower. His shampoo next to mine. It was, well, too permanent; we, however, were not permanent. I don't like facades. I never have."

"I don't know if I'll ever figure you out." 

How do you think I feel? I see a shampoo bottle and now I'm starting to think I'm incapable of bonding. Yeah, these thoughts are staying silent.We climb into bed, he puts his arms around me and pulls me close, running his hands through my hair. 

"I can buy you shampoo, you know, if that helps."

I pretend to be asleep and within minutes, I hear his soft snoring. I gently move his arms off of me and roll over to stare at his ceiling. I know I'm over-thinking this but I can't help it. It's just one more thing to remind me of a life with nothing strongly connecting me to another. I wonder if I do this purposely, keep things shallow or if I never demanded more. That's what bothers me the most, the realization of how little I have ever really asked for. I feel guilty for a moment as his arms find me again and he pulls me close to him. I do admit, it feels nice, feeling the strength of his arms around me, but only for a moment. After a few minutes, I feel suffocated and want to be on my own side of his bed. 

I think back to a relationship, years ago. I did have a toothbrush of my own when I was with him. I always felt a little silly at how much I enjoyed our morning after ritual of brushing our teeth together at his sink, planning our day. When the time came for the toothbrush to be thrown away and my new morning ritual included me staring into a mirror, a solitary figure, contemplating how much makeup it would take to hide the tear stained cheeks and red eyes, I stopped asking for permanence. It no longer seemed necessary. Where I had once poured myself into making two become one, I now worked to have enough energy to stand alone. 

I feel arms tighten around me and hear him murmur into my ear, "You think too much. I like you even if you don't leave stuff here. It's okay. You're just weird, but in a cute way. Get some sleep."

I roll over and bury my face in his chest, loving the smell of his soap and shampoo. I wake up in what feels like minutes, but a quick glance at the clock tells me he let me sleep in. I stretch and roll over and I'm shocked when my arms hit a bag. 

What did he do now?Inside the bag is a bottle of my favorite shampoo, a toothbrush, a pink robe, and a brush. As I am removing the contents, I notice a small pink envelope fall out of the bag. Inside is a note . . . . 

"I did some Spring Cleaning while you were asleep. It was time to remove ghosts of girlfriends past to make room for you. I hope you don't mind."

I feel tears sliding down my cheeks. How amazing that something so small can signal such a huge step towards something/someone for me. I hear the door open and realize he had been standing outside the door, giving me space or maybe, knowing him and how he knows me, provide a barrier to prevent me from running away. 

"It's my favorite shampoo. How did you know?"

He flashes me his cute half smirk. "I smelled all the shampoos until I found the one that smelled like you. The salesperson kept staring at me, but I wanted everything to be perfect."

He kisses my forehead and pulls me close. "You are an odd one, Michelle. But you're my odd one. I have to say, though, you are most definitely probably the one woman who sees a bottle of shampoo as a bigger sign of commitment than a key to my apartment."

"Key are for convenience. Showers with my own shampoo are for staying."

He rolls his eyes like he usually does at my unique logic, but I know he knows what I mean. 

"I just wanted you to know there is room for you here. Not in addition to, but as an only. I even cleaned the whole bathroom and bought a candle. It's the same one I saw at your place. I hope you don't mind?"

I realize that I do feel some fear, a bit of apprehension. But I also realize I'm okay with moving forward with the unknown, knowing that one day, the bottle of shampoo could be emptied and no more is bought to replace it. But that little bit of fear, uncertainty, it sure as hell beats always feeling as if I don't quite belong. 

I jump up from the bed and kiss him and then run off to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I'm rinsing when I feel him behind me, arms reaching around my waist to take the toothbrush and place it next to his. 

And in that moment, I realize, I feel safer and more content than I have in a very long time. 

Hey, girls! This one is for you.

So, when I was a kid, a looooooooooooooooong time ago, I was walking to my grandma's with my Mom. Well, I was walking about two blocks ahead, almost running, which was no easy feat because I was a chubby bookworm kid who never ran. Anyway, I'm rambling (and thanks for putting up with that, too. It can't be easy to wait so long for me to ever get to the point). Anyway, I'm two blocks ahead because my mom was wearing a long "broom" skirt (google it), flip flops and socks. Green socks. Tall, green socks and flip flops. I swore that day, if becoming famous didn't work out and I ended up having kids, I would NEVER embarrass them. EVER. 

I lied. 

But you know this by now. And I'm pretty grateful you still hang out with me . . . in public. Though, at times, I'm convinced you do it just for entertainment value. You do seem to disappear after I am myself, but I always find you. The laughter is pretty loud. 

People ask me how I managed to raise four awesome kids. I tell them: luck and intuition. A little bit of common sense (but only a little. This is me we're talking about here) and a lot of love. And fun.

Brianna, if I wasn't there when you were born, I would swear you are my long lost twin (and don't do that thing you do and debate me on how that would be impossible due to our age difference, just go with me on this, okay?). We look alike, we think alike, we walk alike. But I like that you still want to be seen with me in public. That makes me happy. By the time you were 16, I was prepared for the 2 block drop off and "don't walk near me" talk with rolled eyes. I like that you want to save the world, that makes me proud of you. But I also like that you are a goofball and like to pull pranks on your sisters. They'll appreciate it one day when they learn that pulling pranks on siblings is the best part of childhood. But, yeah, thanks for being so cool and still being willing to be seen with me in public. And I also really like that if people ask if we're sisters and you know I will buy you something, you say yes. I owe you one for that.

Kristin and Kaitlin, you guys are just adorable, with all the twinning that you do. You do tend to walk ahead of me and tell me point blank that I'm a bit nuts. But I know you mean the good kind, not the straight jacket, padded cell kind of crazy. 

Kristin, I like that when you are stressed, you clean. So don't get mad if I cause you stress on purpose, it just means I'm lazy that day and really want the refrigerator cleaned out. I'm sure you understand. And I like that you know I'm really cranky in the mornings so you've started making coffee. I know it's to avoid my grumblings, but I like coffee so it all evens out. 

Kaitlin, you are a funny, funny girl. And so random. Dinnertime is so much more fun when you randomly espouse your love of tacos and food in general. Then laugh and go back to eating. And I like that you are cool with how slightly odd we all are and want us to have a reality show. I know you are hoping that would allow you to meet and marry someone from One Direction. But your willingness to include your whole family in that dream, it's pretty special.

Erin, thank you for being the only one left who will still dance with me, no matter what time, for what reason, or if the curtains are open or not. I like that you will also sing along with me at Walmart or dance a little there, too. After all, it's Walmart. Something has to make it more fun. I also like that when we do Yoga, you add in extra moves. It makes me giggle which takes my mind off the fact that I'm almost 100% convinced that once I'm in a pose, I won't be able to get back up. If you make me laugh hard enough to fall down, we can pretend that's why I'm having a hard time getting up. I appreciate how you got my back.

You all are pretty awesome. Some families are only lucky enough to get one funny kid. I got lucky enough to get four. But, then again, how can you not be? I'm your mom and your dad, well he rocks out to rap while wearing overalls, driving his truck that may or may not have a farm animal in the back. 

You have to have a sense of humor to survive the world you were born into.

But in all seriousness, for just a minute, you make the world a more fun place. That makes it a better place. So, thank you for putting up with me saying stupid things to other people and embarrassing you, dancing in public, serenading you and singing too loud in the car.

I'll love you forever for letting me be myself and still wanting to be seen with me. Even if I'm not buying you anything. 

143

God's not dead ....but He is dying

My daughters rented "God's Not Dead". The premise is a professor who wanted the students to see that God wasn't real, didn't exist, He is dead. One student stood up for his faith and was given the chance to prove that God is NOT dead. The student did a good job.

The movie fell flat to me. In fact, it angered me. Not because I believe God is dead and I was convicted but because the movie hid behind the typical cliches of people of faith. There was no substance, there were no answers.

No answers for those truly going through times that are so heart wrenching, functioning everyday without screaming is a feat in and of itself.

No, God isn't dead but He is dying. Not in the literal sense. But the whole sense of who God is is dying . . .every day.

I have heard since I was a little girl "Oh, look at how blessed their life is. You know they are following God" I always hated that, how we rank people based on how faithful they believe a person is. Yet, the Bible clearly states that all sin is equal to God and works do not gain you anything. And it made an impression on me because even though my Mom was so imperfect, she was a woman of absolute faith. She never wavered. Yet, her faith alone wasn't enough to have others look to her as someone blessed, but a poor woman, struggling with kids who must'nt be doing enough. A woman of little worth because she only threw pennies in the collect basket. A woman to be silenced when she bragged about receiving a bonus for food stamps. Being on the government toll was enough for them to deem her, to deem us, unworthy. Yet, weren't those same people called to care for the poor?

But so often, being poor is a sin in and of itself, regardless of the circumstances.

What I want, what I crave, what my heart needs is a lot less church and a lot more action. A lot less preaching on Sunday morning and a lot more friendship. A lot less judgment and a lot more love. But we are all up in arms over being right, we forget how to act right.

Christian, Atheists, Muslims, Jews, the list goes on and on. So much hatred. So much bickering. So much noise, we've lost the ability to hear . . .

To hear the sobs of those hurting around you and needing relief . . . answers

To hear the silent hymns sung by those who are virtually ignored . . .

To hear the plea from people to just stop fighting and start loving.

And the movie was right, God isn't dead. But He is dying.

Due to our words . . . or lack of them.

Due to our actions . . . or lack of them.

Due to our hatred . . . and lack of love  . . . all in His name.

We are fighting our battles so intently, we've lost sight of the purpose.

We are a mass of people wandering around aimlessly, all in the name of our God without any clue whatsoever of what God wants. Desires.

The world is on fire. It's burning. All around us. And it's not God's fault. It's ours. We are starting these fires faster than anyone can put them out.

Is that really the end result we want? I hope not. I truly, truly hope not. But it's happening regardless, that we may win a few wars, but we are losing the battle. We are losing it badly.

It's always been said that the end of the world would come by fire. I no longer doubt those words.

Emptying the nest

August 11th. The day I jump in the car, drive to Kansas City, help Brianna unpack her life into a small apartment. I'm already expecting to cry. I've been crying a lot this year anyway. Why not one more time. Or a few more times. Her plan is to drive home every weekend. I'm trying to talk her out of that. Not because I don't want to see her. But because she needs to be away to find her own life, to begin building her own world.

Brianna has had a life controlled by others for so long, she needs a life where she makes the decisions now. Having been diagnosed with a life-altering, chronic illness at 12, 3 years after she began getting sick, changed her teen years. She didn't get to dig into ice cream and Doritos with her friends, not without thinking of the consequences. Her illness caused her to miss many big events at school: dances, Homecoming, parties, being on Gold card for good attendance. (I always felt a little bitter that a child with a disease that causes so much pain is punished for missing school, but I digress). Sometimes she had to leave events early to come home to rest, the illness flaring up and sapping her strength, causing her so much pain.

Last year, she fought to get better, took all of her medicine, prayed so intently, all to accomplish one of many dreams: Go to the Dominican Republic. And when she left to board the plane, I cried. Not only because I would miss her and was apprehensive about sending my daughter to a third world country, but because I knew the battle she fought to get there. She called the first few days, homesick and well, just sick. But after that, no more calls. It was a good sign. She was doing well, spreading her wings, living fully in a dream she had since childhood.

It only took about a month after being home for things to get bad. Really bad. We spent a lot of September to November inpatient. She could no longer tolerate food. She lost weight. Blood pressure dropped. And then the feeding tube was put in. I left the room after the doctor left, called my brother and through sobs said, "I can't do this. I cannot do this. I just . . . can't". But I did. We did. She did.

And after 6 months, the tube was removed. And she soared and did what we all expected: spread her wings and flew. Away. For the first time since I held her as a newborn, we were separate from each other. And I was angry. And sad. And scared.

Did I fail as a mother?
What could I have done better?
If only we had fought less . . .

Until I stopped being the "poor victimized mother" and became someone on the outside looking in. This was necessary for her. This needed to happen. I spent the majority of my life, outside of marriage, doing what I wanted, making my own decisions, being the only one accountable for the outcomes. She never has. Not once. Not really. She would rebel and eat what she wanted. She got sick. She decided to stay out late and miss out on sleep. She missed two days of school to recover. She has never had the freedom to make her own decisions without someone else stepping in and stopping her.

But now, she can. She is. She has to. She is going to live alone. Granted, within 10 minutes of her hospital and doctors. But she makes her own decisions. She decides if she goes to class. She deals with the consequences if she doesn't. She decides if she comes home every weekend . . . or once a month. Or only for holidays.

But sometimes, still, when I walk into the room she shared with her little sister and see her side of the room so bare, just a few scarves still hanging up and most of her clothes and pictures gone, my heart hurts. I miss her already so much, it feels as if she's moved to another world. Which she has. She has a life, daily, that doesn't include me. I no longer know what she's doing all of the time. She no longer has to ask me for permission to do things. I don't know her work schedule or what she did last weekend. But I know she's okay. We still talk. We have times we do things together. But I still miss late night conversations. I miss game nights.

And I think the emptying of the nest is a bit sadder for me more because her younger sisters are so quickly getting there as well. The twins are 16. They have a car. They drive. They are still more homebodies than not, but the separating is happening, even now. And it's normal. And Erin, almost 15, she's acquired quite the social life this summer. She is busy a lot or in the kitchen with friends who come to visit, or in her room watching movies or playing video games. They all speak of their future plans and where they want to move. And I realize that the future is not so far off. It feels more like the present every day.

I'm realizing, now more than ever, how much I need to separate as well. How important it is for me to discover my dreams, separate from them. How important it is for me to make my own decisions for my future, knowing they won't be in that future daily. Not like they are now.

And this Friday, the 25th, my birthday nonetheless, I'm going to probably one of the last doctor's appointments with Brianna I'll need to attend, to see what the new step is. Where do we go with her getting sick again. But this time, I'm the onlooker, there for support. I'm not there to make decisions for her. I'm there to watch her make her own decisions.

I guess, though, this is what parenting is about. Being actively involved, doing what I feel is the absolute best, and then getting to sit back and see the results of so many years of being a mom.

I just wish someone had told me, when I was holding her in my arms for the first time, that when the day comes that you get to witness your child become an adult, it doesn't always only feel amazing. Sometimes, it's a mixture. A mixture of joy and pride with sadness. And how much you don't realize how much a part of you your children were until they no longer are.

Body Shaming

Body Shaming . . . a term I hear and read about a lot. It definitely has its place in current discussions about self-image, beauty, and how our bodies are perceived. Some believe it's a newer occurrence, but it's not. It's always been around: the idea of how we should look and the shaming that we receive or give to ourselves if we don't live up to a current ideal.

I remember my first moment where I learned to see my body as less than perfect. I was lying on the couch and staring at my legs. I was about eleven or twelve. I was at the age of becoming more aware of myself and my body. My mom walked by and I told her "I have such pretty legs!" She promptly informed me that I did not, they were fat. I was on Slim-Fast within 48 hours. It was the first time I realized that I was something less than beautiful. Now, disclaimer: I do not hate my mom for this or even believe she was attempting to be cruel. She just also had her own body image issues and had a standard of perfection in mind. I didn't live up to it. She was speaking from her own self-image, not mine. I have only just recently realized this. 

But as a young girl on the brink of becoming a teenage girl and all the massive changes that happen during that time, the seed was planted and I never figured out how to un-plant it.  And even if I wanted to, I don't know if I could have. I was indoctrinated on what was beautiful (thin, blonde) and what was not (me) from that moment on. It never occurred to me that those perceptions could be wrong and beauty wasn't one-size-fits-all. 

But no matter where that comment led me, this isn't a rant about how I was victimized and led down a road of hurting my body to become better. This is about how I am now the mother of four teenage daughters and I am even more aware of how destructive it can be when we shame our bodies or are shamed by others. I am guilty of this. I am guilty of offering rebuttals to my daughters compliments. 

"You look so pretty today, Mom" 

"Ugh, no! Fat! I need to lose weight."

The fact is, in those moments, I am being incredibly selfish. I am not considering their own body image issues or how they are still learning to see the world through my words and actions. But how do you stop something that is so ingrained into your thought process? When it's such a focus every . . . single . . . day!?

It's the subtle body sweeps with the eyes that women give to each other. It's the conversations over lunch about new diets, stretch marks, workouts, who has gained weight, who has lost weight.

And the last part: that's the hardest. I was a fat kid. There is no way around it. I was a young girl in a lot of pain and food was my drug. And it was also the belief of feeling invincible to calories and knowing one day, the baby fat would just melt away. 

Until the baby fat was also covered in grown-up fat. And the comments came. 

"You'd be so pretty if you lost some weight."

"Are you sure you want another cookie?"

"Here, I bought you black. It's slimming."

And then you lose weight and the comments still come. Subtle reminders of what is preferred and what is unacceptable.

"You look amazing . . . NOW!"

"I never wanted to tell you, but yeah, you were fat. I'm glad you did something about it."

"Damn, I always knew there was a pretty girl hidden behind that body."

And this isn't also a rant to be okay with being overweight. I know my family history. I know my own history. Excess weight is unhealthy for me. I don't want diabetes, cancer, joint/muscle problems. I want to be healthy and strong. 

But how do you figure out the healthy balance between becoming healthy and living up to ideals? 

I lost weight before. A lot of weight. I told myself I did it to be healthy. I did it to feel strong. I did it because I was approaching 30 and wanted to feel young. 

I lied.

I did it to spite an ex-husband who told me I was embarrassing to be seen with.

I did it to finally, finally! make my Mom proud of me.

I did it to quiet the sales person at the store who let me know that they didn't carry my size. Or if they did have my size, it was just a gesture. The clothing wasn't meant to actually be worn by someone who is a size 16. 

I did it to stop feeling invisible. 

And I achieved those goals. 

My ex-husband told me I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But it was too late.

My mom couldn't stop bragging about how I looked. But it was too late.

The sales people at those same stores were on a first name basis with me and loved showing me the newest clothes that had come in. But it was too late.

Because no matter what I heard, I still saw myself through their eyes and had no idea how to see myself, with clarity.

But I still kept working to reach more goals. A size 8 had to become a size 6. A friend made a remark about my belly. So a size 6 had to become a 4. I started working for a weight loss company and it was suggested to lose more. So I became a size 2. 

And then I was too thin. I was bony. I lost my curves. I needed to eat. 

I learned harshly that body shaming happens on both sides of the dinner table. Those who are hiding in the bedroom, with a bottle of water trying to ignore the smell of dinner and the gnawing in the tummy, begging for food are no less immune to being made to feel less than than those who are at the table, eating "too much". 

I have four daughters who look up to me, who listen to my words and intently watch how I navigate life. And I know fully well that no matter how much I love them, in this area, I'm failing them. Even if I never say a word, I'm failing them. Because they see me as I tug on my clothes and feel uncomfortable. They see me staring at the mirror trying to really see myself and silently judging what is reflected back to me. They see me on the scale or with a tape measure and hear the loud, frustrated sighs. 

And I don't want to fail them in this area. I want them to have a healthy self-image. Because I have finally realized that people who see themselves in a healthy way take care of themselves. It's not about what size they are or what the scale says. It's about how they feel. It's how they revere their bodies, not damage it. 

And with my recent weight gain, I am once again a pre-teen, sitting at a table, drinking Slim Fast, who no longer sees her body as strong and beautiful, but something to hate. Something to torture. Something to be molded into something worth loving or something to be ignored. 

And all I know right now is that no matter how often I tell my girls that they are beautiful, as they watch me fight to fit into a size whatever-is-considered-perfect-now, I'm also teaching them that one-size-doesn't-fit-all and there is unacceptable and acceptable in regards to appearance. 

And as a mother, that is the worst parenting fail ever. 

Daddy

I wrote you letters one year, after spending days looking up people with your name, getting the addresses and taking a big breath. I thought out my words carefully, wanting it to sound right, wanting the words to draw out some instinct in you to want to meet me. 

Dear Sir (how could I ever call you daddy, a word so foreign on my lips), 

My name is Michelle. From what my mom told, you were the other half of how I came to be. I never met you. I heard you met me once. I was a newborn, so the memory is not one that we share. But knowing that always made me think that maybe, just maybe, you did want to know me. So I am writing to say hello and introduce myself to you.

You'd be proud of me, the woman I have become. I was a wife and I am a mother. I am told I look like you, which bothered me since I always seemed to look so different from my siblings. My mom always told me I had your build: kind of short, thicker thighs. But she also told me stories of how you met, on the dance floor. And I guess that's where I get my love of dancing from. However, I know you both won contests whereas I am more clumsy. But I still have fun. 

Did that come from you as well? 

My siblings were more athletic while I was the bookworm. If someone couldn't find me right away, they knew to find a secluded spot and I'd be curled up with my latest book. My mom was a reader, so I'm sure that came from her. But were you as well?

The fact is, it takes two halves to make a whole. Even if you walked away, scared or spineless, whichever it was, you are part of the reason I am who I am. Can you fault me for wanting to put the pieces together? 

I only wanted to know where the parts of me that don't fit in came from. They had to come from you. I want nothing from you but the rest of the puzzle. 

I'm intelligent and curious. There is truly not enough ever to learn in this world. I'm outgoing but also shy, very shy. I also have a wicked sense of humor and a heart of gold. I don't show the heart part too much. That's where I am more inward and cautious. 

When things got hard or I got hurt, I had moments of anger. I cannot lie. Anger that maybe, just maybe, if I had had a daddy, he (you?) would have protected me. But that never happened and I abandoned fantasies of Knights in Shining Armor at a very young age. I've probably always been too realistic for my own good. My mom was more of a dreamer; I am more of a thinker and a doer. Did that come from you? Or did it come from you not being here. 

Sometimes, when in a crowded place, I find myself seeking out your face in the crowd. But such foolishness there since I don't know your face. I guess a part of me always figured that if I did ever find you, I would just know. 

But yes, I wrote you letters, many letters. Some came back with beautiful replies from men with your name but no connection to me. One came back: Return to Sender. I always thought that was maybe you. Or maybe it was a young woman, embarking on a new life with a new family, wanting to somehow fill in the holes. 

After those letters yielded nothing, I gave up the idea of finding you. I always figured if I wanted to bad enough, it would happen. That's how I see the world: Effort yields Results. I think I stopped out of fear: fear of being let down . . . again. Fear of knowing that you disappeared on purpose and never thought of me and wanted me nowhere in your life. Fears grounded in a reality that is very clear. 

I'll never call you Daddy. I always figured if I met you, I would call you by your first name. Formal. Unfamiliar. We are strangers after all. But a part of who I am is from you. That won't ever change. 

I've recently began wondering about you again. Wondering about your life. But I am no longer a foolish girl hoping for the impossible. I leave it to Fate now, which I've never much believed in. 

But maybe one day, you'll meet me and see what you missed out on. And I'll see where the unfitting pieces of my life finally lie. Because the truth of the matter is this: you can walk away but you always leave something behind, pieces of you.

And those pieces of you reside in me. 

And it's really not fair that I was left alone to figure out where they all go since I never got to see where they came from. 

I'll never call you daddy. I've grown too old to even understand what that means.

But you also must know this: You are one. Rather you want to be or not. 

Stone

I told myself I would go to the cemetery on Monday . . . Tuesday . . . possibly today.  But I just can't . . . not anymore. 

Because I've said my good-byes . . . many times. There are no more. 

So talking to a stone, sitting in front of it, tracing the outline of your name . . .  

It no longer feels necessary.

But feeling connected to you is necessary. 

So incredibly necessary.

And I wish I knew how to do that. 

I heard a character on show say once:

it's not us that haunt you, it is humans who haunt us.

Maybe that's true . . . not wanting to let go. Not knowing how. 

But maybe that's what needs to happen, for everyone. For you. For me. 

For peace. 

Because, some days, there is no peace. I'm too caught up in should've, could've, but no would've. Not anymore.

Can't make amends to the dead.

So I feel drawn to sit in front of stone, tracing the words. 

Your name.

Hoping to feel closer to you.

To hear your voice again.

But again, useless wishes of the living. 

You're no longer there.

Or here.

An unnecessary wish for closure.

All that is needed is forgiveness.

You granted it. I granted it to you.

Maybe now I'll fully grant it to myself.

I feel you sometimes. It amazes me how solid a memory can become. 

A ghost of flesh and blood. But not. 

It's only me filling out the void and giving it shape. 

But it's no longer necessary to kneel in front of a stone and sob for you.

For what is no longer there.

But you are still here . . . .in a new way. 

In my thoughts, memories, parenting, daughters.

So maybe I'll sit in front of stone tomorrow, even if unnecessary.

And I'll allow myself to cry . . . for me.

You no longer need my tears.

But I need them. 

Even after all this time.

The cleansing . . . leading to more forgiveness.

More moving on. 

And I'll trace your name one more time.

And wipe my eyes and stand up.

And realize, finally, I was never saying I was sorry to you.

You no longer needed it.

I was apologizing to myself. 

And learning to be okay . . . 

 . . . without you.

And knowing it's what you wanted all along when you looked at me, one last time and said:

"Be good to yourself, Shelly. You'll be okay"

Yes, Mom, I will be.

And I am. 

Almost. More than I was.

And that is enough for now. 

Ponderings at 85

I knock on her door, more as a greeting than an invitation. I have been letting myself into her small apartment for years now. She meets me at the entryway with a cup of coffee, her own already on the side table. If I know her, it's spiked with a shot of whiskey. She smiles when she tells me "It's what has kept me around for so long." 

I also notice her journal and pen lying next to her coffee. I know this means today I will be silent as she speaks. I love days like this, gleaning a wisdom from her that only her age could afford. 

"I was just looking through old pictures. I was quite the looker in my day. I never saw it, though. I don't think we ever do. That's the saddest part of looking back, knowing how much we missed." 

"You're still the looker", I tell her.

"Oh, don't flatter an old lady. My beauty has faded. I'm okay with that. I had it once, that's enough. I was such a late bloomer, at least that's how I saw it. I spent my youth hiding: behind too much mascara and eyeliner, behind books, big words, fear. Oh, I was so scared when I was young. Scared of falling in love, not being loved, failing. Damn, I wasted so much time, fearing life. I lived on the edges, barely dipping my toes in, feeling the cold and running away." 

She lets out a big sigh and goes quiet. I know I need to stay quiet, let her get lost in her thoughts. 

She takes a drink of her coffee and takes a deep breath.

"It's amazing what we remember when we look back. I remember always being the rebel. I hated the idea of having to fit in, to mold myself. I ran from that. Even as a wife, it was so uncomfortable to try to fit into the mold that seemed laid out for me. I never wanted my wings clipped; I wanted to fly. He hated that, always trying to put me in a cage. So frustrating it had to be for him, trying to keep me grounded while I was fighting so hard to find my own path. One of the hazards of marrying young, I guess. I was so idealistic. Thinking marriage would solve everything, put me where I felt I truly belonged. Instead, it caged me in, dampened my passion. That was the worst part: how dead I felt inside. I never felt alive until I was free: free of expectations and others dreams. I had to go alone and find my own. Boy, did I cause an upset when I discovered myself and made the reveal. But I tell you, I never felt more amazing that day."

I nod at her and sip on my coffee, understanding completely, knowing I was now in that place she had already been. Knowing how scary painful and amazing it felt to shed expectations and stand bare, become a blank canvas. 

"I remember the first time I fell in love. So many assume it was my ex-husband. How sad it wasn't. He was more of a roomate. We were never comfortable with each other. Goodness, I was with him almost twelve years and the man never saw me pee. How can two people be such strangers? But love, oh, what an exciting Spring that was. I still remember that day, in a hotel. I had just come from a hospital, devastated at the news of my Mom's cancer diagnosis. He opened the hotel room and I fell into his arms. I fell in love in that moment. All I remember is the sound of his heart beating against my cheek as I laid on his chest and sobbed and he wrapped his arms around me. But as usual, it ended. I was never quite the same after that. But not in a bad way. I got to experience, once, something good. But love blinds us to the bad and over time, reality crashes in, revealing truths that were hidden before. But I don't regret it, not the beginning nor the end. I never understand why people spend so much time regretting things. You never learn anything that way, except how to be angry."

She pauses and I get up to refill our coffees. I notice a postcard on the kitchen counter, next to the coffee maker. I understand the conversation now.

I take a chance and ask her a question "The postcard, I'm sorry, it was out. The one you loved, is he the one who died?"

A tear falls down her cheek and she takes a deep breath "It's amazing. I stopped loving him so many, many years ago. It feels like another lifetime. But to know someone is gone you once loved, it still hurts."

I place my hand gently on hers and she squeezes it. She pulls her shoulders back and smiles, "Enough talk of ghosts. There is plenty of time for that after. Thank you for humoring an old woman."

"I enjoy these talks. I learn so much from you. Your life, your views, you've had a wonderful life; you're having a wonderful life."

She laughs, a soft chuckle. "Oh sweety, I have lived. So many disagreed with how I did it. But I don't. I don't regret the lovers, the risks, the words, so intimate, that I put on paper for others to read. I wonder how many of them knew how much of myself I was revealing in those stories. I guess it doesn't matter now. As long as people were reading them, I didn't fuss much over what they meant to them. That's for them to decide: what the story is."

"After we broke up, I never really did a serious relationship again. I wanted to, sometimes, but I was a lot to handle I assume, not following the rules. But how boring that would be. What man in his right mind wants a well-mannered woman? I know the type, a boring one. But I had fun, regardless. Even if I was a handful. Who knows, I still have some life in me, maybe I'll still meet a man with big enough hands"

I laugh, hoping to have even a small part of the mischeviousness she still holds onto. 

"You know, I was still scared, even as I got older, So scared of all of the same things. I don't know if we ever get past that. But I decided one day to do it anyway. To take those risks. And sometimes, it hurt so bad when it all came crashing down around me. But one day, I decided I would rather be scared and do it anyway and feel something than to miss out. And you know, honestly, those things I was so scared of, those things that almost broke me, looking back, they were never as big as I thought they were. It's like waiting for the monster to come out from under the bed and one day, deciding to grab a light, look under there yourself, beg him to reveal himself and realizing, he was nothing more than a mouse. That's a good day."

She stands up, grabs my face and gives me a kiss on the cheek, "I always love when you come by. You make me feel young again."

I smile, knowing we both know it is she who makes me feel young, feel alive. How I hope to have her spirit when I am older. How much I want her spirit now.

"Are you rushing me off?" I laugh.

"Of course I am. I have a date. I told you, I'm still searching for that man with the big enough hands and strong enough shoulders. That's what keeps me young: hope. Once you lose that, you lose everything."

With that, I put our now-empty coffee cups in the sink and say my good-byes. 

As I'm leaving, I catch her looking at herself in the mirror and know, at that moment, she still sees herself as a young woman wanting to take on the world . . . 

 . . . and I have no doubt she will.