Rooftop Perspective

Two months ago I swung on a porch swing in the 70 degree, crispy California morning air. I took deep, sultry breaths. I smiled toward the busy hummingbird, who smiled back in his own way. I breathed a certain goodbye. Not that I’d never be back, but never back to that particular town as it was in that particular moment. All that had grown familiar… normal… to us, would soon be different. Southern California glimmered in a way I’d never seen in those last few days, as though it too was uttered to us its own, “until next time.”

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Beautiful Grief

I sat slumped over on the hardwood floor. The sun was shining in slanty lines across the corner of the house that wasn’t in boxes. I stared there instead of the top of the staircase, where the life we built over the past three years – the one built up of 22 years of two people mushed together – sat waiting in a pile of boxes to be shipped off to a garage off Merrill Street. That pile hit me in the face as I walked through the door today. I started crying, finally. I sat on the hardwood floor, leaned against my husband, put my face in my hands, and cried. The weight of reality finally settled into me. It didn’t crush me. It kind of sat there next to me, warm and heavy. There was no reasoning with it, no escaping it, no telling it to wait awhile. The only option was to wrap my arms around it and embrace it.

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Saturday Showers

I hope that hand-made wreath graces your front door. Your first front door, where family and friends—who are are mostly family—will come through and sit around your table, propped on elbows and leaning closer to listen above the murmurs of the people you love all around  you and above your favorite song humming behind the gathering—a subtle ballad to bliss. I hope that skillet makes not-so-perfect pumpkin pancakes on a late and rainy Saturday morning and that those pancakes are the beginning of an agendaless day. Oh sweet friend, you’re radiant and lovely and full of that thing that makes him love you.

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Home.

I don’t know how to write a poem. This was going to be a poem, but I never ever understood poetry except for that it is beautiful. Instead, this is a story–or more like an excerpt of where I am. I am on my couch, in my living room which is a room inside of a loft inside of a big house off of a windy dirt road on the edge of town.

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Patience, Darling

I prayed for it. I honestly yearned for it, when I realized I’d taken the long way. And by long way I mean the wrong way, thus turning around to find the right way. I had all day, why panic? I resisted my heavy right foot and willed patience upon myself. Anxiousness has a funny way of creeping under your skin and making a little home for itself there. It keeps you up at night, mind pacing to and fro. Yet some how, it keeps you from waking in the morning, the lengthiness of it all too intimidating. Forget that. Who needs it, anyhow?

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