You keep staring at me
as if I am always new.
I cannot promise I will not mutate
and perhaps right before your eyes.
However, I doubt it.
I could not leave;
I would not do that to you.
I do like the way your face
is frozen into a mask of
as you watch me
It makes you look tender…
It makes me feel sad to have to
with my mundaneness.
I might actually have to
I might have to bite your chubby cheek,
but with my lips over my teeth
so I do not break the skin.
I would so love to eat you up,
That is against the law.
love this photo of the double screen shot of the shark, and the liquor bottles…don’t know where I found it…(Growlers Beer Bistro site?)…but I find it thrilling…
from http://www.stillherethinkingofyou.com/blog -
When our book was published I gave a copy to my husband, even though I have rarely seen him read anything other than the sports section of the newspaper. I also gave a copy to each of my sons, despite some hesitation on my part.
In our book I reveal things about myself that may seem shocking. Being molested by an uncle as a child. Drug use in my teens and early twenties. Depression. Anxiety. I had wondered if it was a good idea to open myself up like that, knowing family and friends, and yes, my children, would be able to read it. But I knew I had to write my story.
At the time, a little over a year ago, Billy was about to turn twenty-two and Steven was nineteen. All three of my guys were happy for me, and I think proud. Did I expect any of them to actually read it? I hoped they would. But, it is a book about mothers and daughters, written by four women. For a moment I regretted not having a daughter to read my story. Would a man, especially a young man, be interested?
My husband read my section of the book. He said he cried while reading about my struggle with postpartum depression and the chapter about my mother’s death. He told me he thought I was brave to write some of the things I did. I said he should read the other three sections, and he said he would, but he hasn’t so far.
Billy claimed to have too much to do, and yes, he is very busy, with school and work and friends. Though I do notice he has plenty of time to read the Game of Thrones books.
Steven started with my section and then read the whole book. This was not unexpected; Steven is a sensitive and generous person. I knew he wanted to read it for me. Yet I was surprised at how interested he was in the stories. He would knock on my door, book in hand, and ask if I had time to talk. Of course, I’d say. We had many discussions that grew out of his reading. He was seeing me not just as his mother, but as someone’s child, as a teenager, as a young adult unsure of what she wanted from her life, or how to proceed once she found out.
As we talked I realized how much my son needed me to write this book. That revelation was bittersweet.
"…signs, signs, everywhere signs…
Watching my dog watch a cat watching a bird…
the blessing of a moment;
the peace of stillness and awareness;
the dazzling early morning sunlight shining all around, dancing on the breeze, both the light and the breeze kissing my shoulders;
watching her watch the cat watching the bird
and seeing our shadows…
my feet standing on the ground
as this rock flies round
For a moment it is all stillness.
For a moment I am aware of my feet, my shoulders, the dog, the cat, a bird hidden in the branches of a tall shrub, of our star and its energy radiating heat, the air moving and blowing a strand of my hair in front of my eyes.
Then a thought: I wonder how long she can stand here watching the cat…
and I tug lightly on the leash. We move on.
We - my husband, sons, and I - adopted a dog last Monday. Her name is Bailey and she is a hound mix, about one to two years old, and as sweet as can be. We don’t know anything about her life before July 15 when she entered a shelter in North Carolina. Then on July 30 the organization S.N.A.R.R. rescued her, as she was scheduled to be “put down.” After being spayed, vaccinated, and treated for worms and ticks, two days later she went to live with a foster family in New Jersey. I saw Bailey’s picture on Facebook and read about her. I contacted Linda - the foster “mom” - by e-mail, filled out an application to adopt, and Linda and I spoke by phone. On Monday morning we drove down to Middletown to meet Bailey and ended up driving back home with her. She was shy, nervous, and I would imagine, confused for the first couple of days, but now, a week later, she seems right at home.
A year ago, on August 1, our dog Ruby died. She had been with us for ten years. We had adopted Ruby from a shelter in Harlem when she was just six weeks old. She had been found, along with about thirty other dogs and puppies, in an abandoned building in the city. Ruby was white with black ears and spots, a pointer mix, and she was smaller than Bailey. She was a high-strung dog, very attached to me, and anxious around strangers and other dogs. We loved her. We miss her.
Now, we have Bailey. It is so very nice to have a dog in the house again. Bailey is very friendly, playful, and pretty. She has russet colored ears and spots, amber eyes, and long legs.
In the past week I have learned, or rather relearned, a few things. For one thing, it is wonderful to walk for no other reason than to walk. Also, it is wonderful to stop, stand very still, lift up your head, look straight ahead but at nothing in particular, and let the sun warm your face and the breeze blow back your hair. Using your nose more is also a very good thing. The world is full of interesting aromas. And taking off after a squirrel or rabbit now and then is invigorating and fun, despite not ever actually catching one.
Bailey is sleeping now, next to me here on the love-seat in our living room. After I finish writing this I will put her leash on and take her for one more trip outside before it is time to settle down for the night. While we are out there, walking and inhaling the scents of this summer evening, and feeling the breeze against our faces, we will take time to stop and be still. While Bailey stares out into the darkness, searching for something to chase, I’ll make sure to look up at the stars, and make a wish on the first one I see.
I sit at my desk, here at home, in my bedroom, and work. This morning I am working on a short story about a ten year old girl who is having her hair done at a beauty salon for the first time because she is the flower-girl in her cousin’s wedding later that day. Anyway, as I type, and delete, and type some more, and moan and groan, there is a fat bumblebee outside the window, trying to break through the screen. Persistent. Crazy thing, banging itself against the screen over and over again. I talk to the bee. “Go away,” I say. “There is nothing in here for you.” Buzzes off, but comes back again in a few seconds. Stubborn. Lost? Lonely? Maybe I’ll put this bee in my story.