Surprise!

 I surprised myself with tickets to New York. You're probably wondering, how does one surprise herself? Ask my mother, she used to do it all the time. 

There was the six months spent looking for my Easter candy. 15 years old, I  no longer expected a basket or bags of mini Reese's eggs. We had done the required egg hunt the day before, though this year I was more worker bee than hunter/gatherer. I felt that the Easter traditions had been fulfilled, time to get in the car and drive two and a half hours for lunch and then exhaustedly drive two and a half hours back. As I walked down stairs to search for the keys so we could be on time for once, I heard my mother call out, "see if you can find your candy!"

My candy! So there was a little excitement left in my childhood, thank goodness! I searched everywhere. Above the computer, between books, within shoes, daring to go beyond my mom's pile of dirty clothes guarding the closet. Nothing.

"I don't think it's in a basket, there's just a few chocolate bars." 

Oh great, now not only did I have to search the three floors of our house, but I wasn't even looking for a big item. If I was my mother, where would I put it....

Okay, we have a very explorative, always hungry, doesn't understand no dog; search high. I'm 5'5", my mom is 5'7", don't search that high. Gone was my productive 'find the keys mindset,' I had a mission and I had chosen to accept it. 

Forty-five minutes later feeling hopeless, hungry, and extremely late, we gave up. "Let's buy candy at the gas station, and get our butts on the road!"

I was shocked when I found a package of Reese's cups and a Hershey's bar nestled in the mixing bowl of my mom's Hamilton beach mixer. "It's July. Why is there candy in the mixing bowl? Can I still eat this?"

My Easter candy, much like Jesus, had miraculously risen from the depths. No one was more surprised than the hider herself. "I could hide my own birthday presents," she would say.

"You hid your own candy," I would retort.

I surprised myself with tickets to New York. I didn't buy the tickets, lose them, find them and realize, "Oh shit! I go to New York on Friday!" 

My friends and family won't someday look back at this trip and think, "What a hilarious story that is also an obvious sign of early onset dementia."

I bought tickets out of the blue, no warning for myself, my friends, or my savings account. I heard my mom's voice, rising from the dead (see Jesus), telling me to go. Go and find what has been hidden for the last six months. Go and find your resurrection. Go and find life's sweetness, dolce vita. Go and find what I have hidden for you. 

My mom surprised me with tickets to New York. 

 

Fear Turns to Hope: A quintet of thoughts

 

I.

I used to think that without you I would forget.

Forget how to breathe,

Forget how to see,

Forget how to dream.

I would forget the kindness in the world,

The brilliance,

Beauty,

Sweetness,

All of which you found in me.

I believed without you,

There would be no me.

II.

I saw the world with your faded grace.

I saw the world slowly dim as memories became empty space.

I saw the world crumble with every face you misplaced,

I saw my world die with one final embrace.

III.

And now.

Now I remember.

Now I carry on.

Now I am the one who is strong.

I’m not moving forward,

Or becoming someone new.

Now I am the me, that you always knew.

IIII.

Flying high,

Wings soaring toward the sun.

You always knew, even without you,

My life had just begun.

V.

So teach me caution with a chance for joy,

Teach me dreaming with no sense of fear to employ.

Teach me to long for all that I can be.

With your absence, teach me.

My Mother's Hands

 

These are my mother’s hands.

The blue veins pulsing against the pale, pink skin.

Fingers long, but not thin, flexible, but incapable of stretching

Across the keys to play a song.

Nails kept neat, clean, growing until brittle and breaking

A cycle that begins again.

The hands remind me of a gentle pat on the head,

A temperature checked,

A tissue passed.

They remind me of newspaper shared,

Exclamations pronounced,

Laughs shared as stories fall like rain around me.

These are my mother’s hands.

 

My mother’s hands were nets.

Drawing in strangers and friends.

My mother’s hands were boats

A place to rest in the storm, comforting until still.

My mother’s hands were nests.

They caressed my beating thoughts until I nestled safely under her palm.

My mother’s hands were open and waiting.

Reaching out to those who were lost or lonely,

In my mother’s hands they would find a home.

I hold my mother's hands.

I hold them, making them my own.

What I Found

 I found the candy in the mixer. It made sense why it had taken six months for me to find it, how was the Easter bunny supposed to know we never baked anymore?

I found the car where we had left it. Of course it had been forgotten, two blocks from home and how often did we really drive?

I found the keys in the purse. This where I always put them, but with the pockets and the junk who would know unless they really dug?

I found the cell phone on the eighth ring. Six missed calls are all it had taken that time, who carries their phone around if it isn’t even smart?

They found her on the floor of the bathroom. Shaken and forgetful all day, how could she be herself when she had seizures waiting on the horizon?

They found her fallen on the ground. Stairs and ledges, who would be able to keep themselves up if their limbs shook and the house was a maze of snares?

They found her asleep in her chair. Watching football and her daughter prattling on, why not fall asleep when your brain can no longer hold images or words?

They found her. Not her anymore, a body is not a person and the woman lying in bed is no longer a mother, why shouldn’t she seek peace over pain?

She found me. Crying in the basement, tornado clouds over head, children scared of storms are quite common, right?

She found me. Screaming down the stairs, lunging for the “rat bastard” of a dog who wondered “can’t I have more attention than the tv?”

She found me. At a loss for words, looking into her eyes trying to hold up a conversation that was always weighted on the other side, what do I say now?

She found me. Scared, alone, helpless, grateful, loved, broken, joyous, and hopeful; a mother will never forget her child, how could I forget you?

I found her. The wind brushes my cheek, dogs kiss my face, friends release my smile, love fills my heart and I find her.

No question, I know that is you.

No Filter

 Usually when I put something on here I try to make it poetry or well thought out, but I don't have a diary and I need to word vomit.

I am so sick of emotions. I am tired and exhausted of feeling anxious and broken. I am sick of breaking down only to tell a joke three hours later. I am done pasting on a smile and pushing down my anger. I want to tell people no. I want to tell them leave me alone. I want to tell them they aren't what I want or need, but you can't do that. 

I want to lock myself away and stop being a person. I want to transform into a squirrel and spend my day climbing trees. I want to be a frog and hibernate under the snow. I want to be a cat and spend all day in the sun. I want to stop being.

Not forever. Just an hour or two days. I need to stop being for everyone else. I need to stop being for me. I need to stop being. I can't handle the constant twists and turns, the waves that are being human. Dear Stevie, I did not ask to climb this mountain I did not ask for the changing seasons of my life. I want to be Arizona, Summer all the time. Winter did not need to hit this hard with this many fluctuations. 

I am not okay and I don't want to be that way anymore. I want to be fine. I want to say I'm good and mean it. Why do I need to adjust daily to emotions, why can't I be stagnant and not broken everyday. I build this puzzle daily, why do the pieces keep ending up on the floor?

My Refrain

 

Where do I take the problems?

Who will predict my dangers?

When can I lay my fears down?

Who will take away my daggers?

Where do I call home?

 

I’m not okay without you,

Self-sufficient as I am.

I am not okay without you.

I don’t know who I am.

The Ways We Prepared

 

As I child, I prepared.

I asked questions:

 “When you die, will I share your stuff with anyone?”

It is all yours.

As a teen, I adjusted.

Two, three, nights alone:

“I’ll call you when I get there.”

Watch for deer on the road.

As an adult, I jumped.

Ready to be off on my own.

“Text shorter, leave paragraphs for the phone.”

I’ll send 100 messages and leave a voicemail at the tone.

By myself, I cried.

I can’t handle all you gave me.

I’m not ready to be alone.

Now with nowhere to turn to,

No reason for my phone.