Mirror, mirror

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Shiny, it stands affixed before me
Staring in silence, watching the house
I draw closer, my image mimics
My reflection is weary, is tired
Lines feather out from drooping eyes
In corners, crooked path awaiting tears
Speckles of injury dot high cheeks
Chins hug one another, seek attention
Hair frizzies edge a creased forehead
I inhale, nostrils flaring with intake
This is me. This is me.
Fingers fumble to draws, pull handles
The familiar shuffle of compacts sounds
Colors beckon me to choose them
The foundation of today’s cover up
What mask shall I wear today?
No one wants the truth anymore
So I slather on the fake
Hide the history of disappointments well
cosmetically covering up each new hurt
And pretending all is just fine.
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Inspired by the Six Word Fridays meme.

drops of red

Just after school let out for the summer, I found myself sitting in my van. The light was red and the van idled. The sun was an eerie blaze ahead of me – one of those just before sunset glares.  There I was, suddenly unhappy.  I gripped the steering wheel and studied my wrists; And my mind conjured up this image of little droplets of deep red trickling down each.  I shuddered, shaking off the morbid vision and mashing the gas as the light turned green.

That evening, I felt a bit out of sorts. Where’d that thought come from? Was I so burdened by stress of money issues? By stagnation of my career? Or, more likely, by the desolving structure of my childhood family? Truth, I’d recently realized just how human a man I trusted was. And disappointments in his actions, his continuing lies, and his blatant rejection were fresh injuries to my spirit. But I shouldn’t have been thinking about slit wrists and endings.

I scrolled through my newsfeed. Facebook nonsense, as usual, was mundane and trivial.  And then I saw a link to a newspaper article. My graduate school classmate turned friend turned colleague had been found dead. The report said she’d committed suicide. I let out a cry and tried to stifle my quickly intensifying sobs.

She’d been a distant friend – or acquaintance,  even – as our families had increased and our jobs evolved. Nevertheless,  every time we saw on some another, we’d take a few seconds to smile, compliment,  promise to meet for longer.  I had a standing invitation for her fantastic Austrian coffee and easy, welcome conversation. Then rumors began. Then assumed truths, accusations. There were articles, evening news reports, and speculation. Somewhere in the madness I faltered.  I didn’t call to offer comfort, didn’t email a quick “you’re in my prayers.”  Privately I worried about the woman I’d known and publicly I spoke concern for her young children, the elder of which who had so happily played with mine.  I wondered, no, I still wonder what actually happened.

I’ve thought a lot about that awful moment in my van. About my children without me. They’re resilient,  they’d move on. They would enjoy productive,  happy lives. Someone else would take my place at their important events, would console them in sadness and disappointments,  would cheer them on in daily tries and triumphs. I’d be a memory. It wouldn’t be enough for me.

On Monday,  I celebrated my 35th birthday. I embraced getting older. I reflected on changes I’d like to make. I evaluated my goals, determined which to tweak and which to let go.

And I resolved to live, even as reports about Robin Williams taking his own life began to take over the day.

Calling out

“Mom? Can we take a trip again when everyone is gone; just me, you, and Laura? ” he asks timidly. To speak it louder than a whisper would certainly draw unwanted, non-physical but equally painful abrasion from the excluded. Underlying his request is several years of feeling displaced in his own family, in his home.

No one said it’d be easy. No one warned me that he’d suffer from this merger.

My baby boy, no longer a baby at just shy of six, lashes out. He’s increasingly more volatile – the great debater on all miniscule factoids. He makes demands. He interrupts, imposing his presence in every conversation. He makes me frustrated; so frustrated that sometimes I just have to separate from him.
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My boy. The one who introduced himself to me unexpectedly.  The baby Doc said I shouldn’t carry to term because of some fluke condition a test said he possessed. My tiny, skinny son born weeks ahead of what I was certain was his due date. My screamer who couldn’t eat without the pain of reflux. My water baby. My chubby cheeked, kiss – loving gentleman. My co-sleeping, extended nursing babe. My child with the wisdom of one far older, but without the foresight of action’s effect.

At each meal, he insists, “I’m sitting next to mom.”

He randomly inquires about the  possibility of Mommy and Me days.
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He imparts himself in conversation with frequent, repetitive interjection. It’s important,  his persistence insists, and critical to present discussion

He endures possessive interference from his little sister (who borrows his “guys!?!” label as a sibling call all).

And he waits endlessly for a chance to cuddle – to just sit next to me silently present.

“Please can I sleep on your floor? Dad’s not going to hug you no more. He’s got all the time. I only got snuggle time for like an hour. Why can’t he sleep in his man cave?” he begs, boomeranging into my room 18 minutes past our first goodnight hug and kiss. 

Reluctantly,  I send him away. He hugs me tight and I kiss his forehead. He smells of my perfume, having fiddled with the bottle on my dresser and shot the potent mist all over. I reiterate my promise to photograph his Lego creation in the morning.

My heart aches for him. I don’t know how to stretch my time. I pray he doesn’t condemn me as a mom failure with evidence of my shortcomings. He is a critical piece of my heart.

I hear the familiar mantra echo in my head, ‘Actions speak louder…’

Did I tell you I love you?

He sauntered over, slumped into a chair and asked me. Without reply, he knew the effect.

“There is that smile. I love it when you smile. You and dad should smile more often. You’d be happier. ”

I’m reminded, then, of overwhelming obligations that hinder such a simple expression. But despite the pressure to catch up, to overcome,  I need to remember to live in the “now.”

He’s older, a teenager with a desire for independence and personal space. The countdown to graduation and adulthood is quick. And yet he’s here. In this moment. He has chosen to linger at the table with mom.

I sip my coffee. And we two survey the crowded cafeteria. Families with many little children create a cacophony of conversation. Dishes rattle.

“I hope we play you guys early in the season,” he says, voice rising and cracking as he builds enthusiasm about this sophomore endeavor. 

“Coach says… ” he rattles on about his pending football season. This year, we’re on junior varsity – later games and tougher expectations. He’s changed positions, too. Now he’s on the field with offense and could score with some plays.  The anticipation of the first scrimmage hovers in his thoughts, his dreams.  He’s ready.

I still have his jersey from last year, the jagged cut reminding me of the ambulance,  the neck brace,  the danger of this sport he loves.  I’m supposed to ‘upcycle’ the uniform into a cheer jersey for Ri. And she’s probably going to be his favorite cheerleader in the early minutes of his games.

He smiles and shoves a finger into the bridge of his glasses to push them into place. They slide right back, the red electrical tape showing on the side despite his efforts to color it black.

He surveys our neighboring tables discreetly,  noting no new patrons in his age bracket. And he rambles on.

One

It’s cold inside this old house
Empty, save the spiders who weave
They create connections in open space
Keeping me company without making contact
Alone, I brood over lost opportunity
Many a moment slipped through unnoticed
My grasp on success too loose
In the darkness, candlelight dances around
Welcome motion in this wicked silence
I imagine joining the soiree myself
Shaking out these aching, mistreated bones
Willing myself a pirouette,  petite jete
Humming melodies of memory, swiveling hips
Once upon a time I was
And, perhaps, I still can be
Something inside awakens, renewing forgotten passion
Arachnid eyes peer at sudden movement
Creeping deeper into corners in surprise
Life is not over, not yet
This one isn’t ready to stop.
Fervently continuing my twirl and twist
Feeling the heat of renewal build.
Leaping out of thoughts, I begin
Determining to make dreams my reality.

Inspired by the Six Word Fridays meme. The focus is “one.”

Mini Vaykay

Williamsburg, we couldn’t stay away.
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