I don't know my mother well enough to buy her a Mother's Day present. I am not sure what she would want, what she would appreciate.
I see commercials of smiling mothers, wanting anything, thankful for everything their child gives them. It reminds me of one very prominent Mother's Day when I was 6.
I had spent an entire week drawing her picture after picture after picture of anything I could think of. Pictures of us. Pictures of her and dad. Pictures of me, her, my brother. The tree outside that she loved. Rivers and oceans. Clocks. Things she loved.
I woke up early that Sunday to fix her breakfast. Dad helped me. Eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit. Coffee. Milk. Juice. Everything.
I carried it back to her room, her present tucked under my arm, expecting a happy mother pleased with my work. I loved her. And I wanted her to know.
I don't think she understood that.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
First Kiss
She was beautiful. Her short brown hair curled into her blue eyes, no matter how many times she brushed it away. Her laugh infected me. It seemed to bubble up from her stomach, as she fought to keep it inside, roll around her throat, then escape from her mouth and nose. Whenever she laughed, I couldn't stop myself from doing the same. Her deep breathy voice always incited a tingle in my finger tips and toes. A tingle I could never place.
She was my best friend.
I was thirteen the first time I fell in love. Puppy love. The innocent kind that leaves a sticky sweet taste in your mouth, your heart beating faster, ready for the real thing to happen next.
I adored Hannah. She adored me. But we carefully avoided close contact, sleep overs, moments alone, because of the way we felt. In a small town, loving a girl is not a thing to talk about. Even worse would be to actually commit to it. Unspoken between us was something neither of us understood. But something that both of us wanted desperately.
We were fifteen before we finally gave in.
It was close to midnight when I heard the knock at my window. Pulling back the curtain, there was Hannah, drenched from the rain. So wet that at first I didn't even notice her crying.
"I have to leave. We're moving. Some time next week. I don't want to go." She burst into tears again, sitting on my bed. I brought her dry clothes, listening to how her father had gotten the promotion he had been vying for, how the post was two states away. That within less than a week, they would all be gone.
Before I could stop myself, I cradled her face in my hands, and I kissed her lips softly. No pressure applied. Barely even a kiss. I didn't even close my eyes. Neither did she.
It was my first kiss.
I pulled back slowly. My hands still on her face. I smoothed her hair, the curls falling into her eyes yet again, and waited for a reaction.
"I love you. And I wish things were different." With those two sentences she returned my kiss. I struggled to make this moment last, remembering every detail as her mouth opened against mine. She was soft, and I wondered if I felt just as soft to her. I could taste her, her tongue swirling against mine, and I could feel myself wanting her more and more, pulling her closer and closer, as the kiss grew more intense.
But as with all good things, the end came.
We slept that night face to face, our arms thrown over each others' waists, knowing this would be all we would ever have. I said goodbye to her the following week with the rest of our class, and we never mentioned that night.
Forty years later, I sit here, still dreaming about that moment. I have never loved another girl since. And my husband buried in the backyard, along with my three children and seven grandchildren are a testament to that.
But I still miss her. And I will always love her.
My Hannah.
She was my best friend.
I was thirteen the first time I fell in love. Puppy love. The innocent kind that leaves a sticky sweet taste in your mouth, your heart beating faster, ready for the real thing to happen next.
I adored Hannah. She adored me. But we carefully avoided close contact, sleep overs, moments alone, because of the way we felt. In a small town, loving a girl is not a thing to talk about. Even worse would be to actually commit to it. Unspoken between us was something neither of us understood. But something that both of us wanted desperately.
We were fifteen before we finally gave in.
It was close to midnight when I heard the knock at my window. Pulling back the curtain, there was Hannah, drenched from the rain. So wet that at first I didn't even notice her crying.
"I have to leave. We're moving. Some time next week. I don't want to go." She burst into tears again, sitting on my bed. I brought her dry clothes, listening to how her father had gotten the promotion he had been vying for, how the post was two states away. That within less than a week, they would all be gone.
Before I could stop myself, I cradled her face in my hands, and I kissed her lips softly. No pressure applied. Barely even a kiss. I didn't even close my eyes. Neither did she.
It was my first kiss.
I pulled back slowly. My hands still on her face. I smoothed her hair, the curls falling into her eyes yet again, and waited for a reaction.
"I love you. And I wish things were different." With those two sentences she returned my kiss. I struggled to make this moment last, remembering every detail as her mouth opened against mine. She was soft, and I wondered if I felt just as soft to her. I could taste her, her tongue swirling against mine, and I could feel myself wanting her more and more, pulling her closer and closer, as the kiss grew more intense.
But as with all good things, the end came.
We slept that night face to face, our arms thrown over each others' waists, knowing this would be all we would ever have. I said goodbye to her the following week with the rest of our class, and we never mentioned that night.
Forty years later, I sit here, still dreaming about that moment. I have never loved another girl since. And my husband buried in the backyard, along with my three children and seven grandchildren are a testament to that.
But I still miss her. And I will always love her.
My Hannah.
Genius Idea...
I fucking love when an idea like this smacks me in the side of the head. I almost fell out of the damn computer chair.
I'm not telling here, so don't even ask. I was just excited.
I'll be busy writing for awhile now. Later, kids.
I'm not telling here, so don't even ask. I was just excited.
I'll be busy writing for awhile now. Later, kids.
Dark Magic
I love cemeteries. Walking around, especially in the evenings with a slight drizzle of rain, I feel safe, completely covered from the outside world. Honestly, I am completely pulled in by the tombstones. I read the dates, the inscriptions, the names. Wondering about the lives that lay ended beneath my feet.
I am in middle Tennessee right now, my place of origin. Yesterday, I found myself locked out of a house for quite a while, so I went on a walk. Straight to the cemetery down the road.
This cemetery, once ancient and old, has been kept up by the wrong people. Instead of preserving the historical points, they choose to leave broken headstones, replace antique fences with chain link (ugh), and allowing moss to completely cover the beautiful inscriptions. Death used to be so romantic in the 1800s and early 1900s. People actually cared about tombstones, things of importance. They were put up immediately. Maybe even made before your death, depending on your social standing. Whereas today, my papa still does not have a tombstone because my grandmother is too cheap. If I had the money...
I did not have my real camera in my possession, but I did have my less than inferior phone with camera. There were some shots I could not pass up...
Such as this broken twisted fence. My creative imaginative mind has all sorts of dark possibilities for the twisting of a cemetery fence...
This relief on the grave of a four year old little girl depicts a tree with one live bird perched on a branch. Lying below, a dead bird on the ground. I wonder if perhaps this little girl might have had a twin. Although morbid depictions like this were very popular in the 1800s. As was keeping a lock of the deceased's hair.
This grave yard also had some intriguingly different shapes for head stones. The concrete cylinder, very similar to the test cylinders we made in my material science class to test concrete strength, and the tree stump, perched on two concrete logs. Cool, huh?
Now... this is what caught my eye from across the rows. A pentagram perched on top of a woman's grave. In a cemetery behind a church, no less. But, this was not the pentagram I was more familiar with. Next to her, her husband's stone held the symbol for the Freemason society. Since they also utilized the five pointed star as a symbol of felicity and brotherhood, I could only infer that this couple was deep into that religious, secret sect. Searching on the internet later, I found this exact star, with the inscriptions inside, on a history of the Freemasons page. So I'm assuming my assumptions were correct.
Still... it would have been cooler the other way around.
I am in middle Tennessee right now, my place of origin. Yesterday, I found myself locked out of a house for quite a while, so I went on a walk. Straight to the cemetery down the road.
This cemetery, once ancient and old, has been kept up by the wrong people. Instead of preserving the historical points, they choose to leave broken headstones, replace antique fences with chain link (ugh), and allowing moss to completely cover the beautiful inscriptions. Death used to be so romantic in the 1800s and early 1900s. People actually cared about tombstones, things of importance. They were put up immediately. Maybe even made before your death, depending on your social standing. Whereas today, my papa still does not have a tombstone because my grandmother is too cheap. If I had the money...
I did not have my real camera in my possession, but I did have my less than inferior phone with camera. There were some shots I could not pass up...
Such as this broken twisted fence. My creative imaginative mind has all sorts of dark possibilities for the twisting of a cemetery fence...
This relief on the grave of a four year old little girl depicts a tree with one live bird perched on a branch. Lying below, a dead bird on the ground. I wonder if perhaps this little girl might have had a twin. Although morbid depictions like this were very popular in the 1800s. As was keeping a lock of the deceased's hair.
This grave yard also had some intriguingly different shapes for head stones. The concrete cylinder, very similar to the test cylinders we made in my material science class to test concrete strength, and the tree stump, perched on two concrete logs. Cool, huh?
Now... this is what caught my eye from across the rows. A pentagram perched on top of a woman's grave. In a cemetery behind a church, no less. But, this was not the pentagram I was more familiar with. Next to her, her husband's stone held the symbol for the Freemason society. Since they also utilized the five pointed star as a symbol of felicity and brotherhood, I could only infer that this couple was deep into that religious, secret sect. Searching on the internet later, I found this exact star, with the inscriptions inside, on a history of the Freemasons page. So I'm assuming my assumptions were correct.
Still... it would have been cooler the other way around.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Things Are Only Things
It is amazing how much power I can give to inanimate objects. A candle, a dress, a pocket knife, a table...
These are just some of the things recently that either I cannot dispose of or that holds some deep connotation within it. I started thinking then about everything around me. And the reason for those meanings...
I honestly want to dispose of everything in my possession. I hate the feeling of being bogged down and trapped by what I own. So as I rid myself of things, some stick out and guilt prevents me from dropping them. I hold no emotion for things. Honestly, I thought I did. And I will admit, there are a few things that remind me of certain people that I will never let go of. But the table my mom and dad bought me when I moved into my first apartment? I want to sell it. Which seems to break my mother's heart. I have no use for it now, being a nomad and all. I have nowhere to store it, nor the means to rent a place to store it.
And the wedding dress. It is just a dress to me. Just a dress. I am going to sell it or donate it. But certain people want me to store it away. And I just do not see the point. Why would I need to keep something like that? Even if unforeseeably I do remarry (bah), I would not wear the same dress. And why would I want that memory taking up space in my already too small closet?
The candle. The candle now sits on my Demon's bureau. We burn it every so often. But now it is just a candle. Burnt along with other candles. It is not special. It holds no happy or sad connotations. It is just a candle.
Everything we own becomes a memory holder. But clinging to the object does not bring back that day, that moment, or that person. Nor should we want it to do that. I am thankful it doesn't.
I hold my own memories.
These are just some of the things recently that either I cannot dispose of or that holds some deep connotation within it. I started thinking then about everything around me. And the reason for those meanings...
I honestly want to dispose of everything in my possession. I hate the feeling of being bogged down and trapped by what I own. So as I rid myself of things, some stick out and guilt prevents me from dropping them. I hold no emotion for things. Honestly, I thought I did. And I will admit, there are a few things that remind me of certain people that I will never let go of. But the table my mom and dad bought me when I moved into my first apartment? I want to sell it. Which seems to break my mother's heart. I have no use for it now, being a nomad and all. I have nowhere to store it, nor the means to rent a place to store it.
And the wedding dress. It is just a dress to me. Just a dress. I am going to sell it or donate it. But certain people want me to store it away. And I just do not see the point. Why would I need to keep something like that? Even if unforeseeably I do remarry (bah), I would not wear the same dress. And why would I want that memory taking up space in my already too small closet?
The candle. The candle now sits on my Demon's bureau. We burn it every so often. But now it is just a candle. Burnt along with other candles. It is not special. It holds no happy or sad connotations. It is just a candle.
Everything we own becomes a memory holder. But clinging to the object does not bring back that day, that moment, or that person. Nor should we want it to do that. I am thankful it doesn't.
I hold my own memories.
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