Writing is like leaves falling on a violin. It’s like honey dripping off my lip. It’s like a dandelion reaching, reaching in abounding happiness. Writing is like many dribbles on my car window jutting whichever ludicrous way strikes them. Writing is loose skirts that drag on the ground and airy pyjama pants. It’s the smell of campfire smoke on a neighborhood walk. Writing is playing basketball and feeling the fire twenty years too old, till your lungs wheeze and say, “Please.” Writing is my way of beading a necklace till it’s perfectly balanced yet edgy. Writing has to be done. It won’t wait. Otherwise the words flow down the drain with the last of the sediment…
Please wait for me. Honey, I just can’t come home right now. I need a break from mental melodrama. Miracles happen but not tonight. Tonight I’m not going home. I’m going to run my hand down a sterile white wall. I’m going to eat my burger in the form of a square casserole. I’m going to take two little pink pills, two banana flavored pills, an Ativan and an injection. I’m going to listen to Christian music till it drives me batty. Then I’m going to cast out my demons. But not home. Not tonight. Please wait for me.
Went to sleep late after a four hour talk with my husband. Explored the ins and outs of having another bambino. Looks like Enzo is it. The only one we’ll have. This garden plant will only have one bloom. It’s hard to come to terms with.
But I think of Enzo, the wonder in his eyes, his dancing steps, and I know I have a miracle. I have a love miracle in this little dollop of sunshine and spice. I need nothing else but this little, simple hand to hold. His daddy and I walk along the beach arm in arm. Enzo picks up rocks and feathers. The sun is warm on our hair and we are happy, with each other, with being in love, with three.
Enzo has a build like his Daddy; skinny on the bottom with a wider chest. His hair is shaggy and his eyes are green. He is three, in all its glory. He is chatty and when he makes a statement he looks for confirmation— “Right? Right? Right?” he asks until you say, “Right.” “I want to look up Stormtroopers online,” he says. He scans the pages of devilish star wars bad guys and sees something that catches his eye, “Stormtrooper cookies! Can we make some?”
At the park he is a tiny warrior. He is a little wisp in the wind as he gets lost in the enormous field with his Enzo sized sword. He’s a ragamuffin vagabond. He runs freely and haphazardly. He takes a tumble in the dark green grass. “Bad guys! We need to beat them up!” he exclaims.
Enzo is a strong willed soul. He doesn’t take a “no” easily. He spills fake tears like a wet dog shaking when he hears that little word. When you tell him to come, often he starts wandering in the wrong direction and says, “What’s Sillies doing?” with an impish smile. He’s so cute you have to chase him down, scoop him up, laugh at his giggles and tell him to mind Mama.
Enzo is dandy, and three, and funny, and silly and strong. When you pick him up he says, “I want to walk!” When you kiss him he wipes off the kisses with zest. He’s a rough and tumble boy. He’s bright and he’s a delight!
I have an infectious disease at the moment. I am hidden from society. I must wear a mask, stay in my home, and take buckets of heavy duty meds. I cough into a cup and they tell me my fate: you’re still contagious and you must stay hidden. The sickness hung on me for about 2 months before I was diagnosed, and there I was in society, smiling, shining and coughing on people all the while before they decided to hide me away.
My boy stayed with his Nana for three weeks, and when he came home he screamed for Nana, breaking my heart into pieces. He’s home now, and him and I have played intensively; played and played and played, making up for lost time. We’ve been “breaking” bad storm troopers, we’ve been blasting evil robots, and we’ve been saving BB8. And then Enzo comes of his own accord and leans on me; comes and falls into my arms. His touch is so sweet and affirming, and I feel like a Mama. Not a sick outcast, just a blessed woman.
Enzo makes sure all the storm troopers are broken in our house. His light sabre is as big as him. His hair roguishly falls into his eyes as he tromps around the house. Enzo is a Jedi Warrior. In his psyche there is only one person that matters right now: Daddy. Sound is all around Enzo. Everywhere he goes he makes sound; a hum; a crash; a song; an engine. His energy fills up our house and leaks out the cracks into the neighborhood. Everyone around here knows it. I’m glad I have a pint sized benevolent warrior to protect me.
When I was a baby, a man dedicated me to the Lord. He said, “Her works will praise her at the gates.” I haven’t dreamed in a while, or thought about building something. When things get hard, I just go to bed. I don’t have a leg up on a legacy. I don’t have a rainy day fund. I haven’t saved up for something for a long time. This little piece of literature is a coin in the bank. It makes a hollow clinking sound on the few other coins in the piggy. I’m writing for a girl who just took her hair down on a windy day. I’m writing for a little boy who beats up dragons. I’m writing for a husband who reads and sighs and cooks. I’m writing for me. It’s not much, but I’ve gotta have something at the gates.
Spiritual world, I’d like to see you some other way. I’d like to see you in breezes that blow over my skin. I’d like to see you in giggles and grins. I’d like to see you in a simple little boy. I’d like to see you for what you really are. When I am quiet I’m not afraid. When I work I feel the satisfaction of rough hands on produce—hands earning a living. When I go to bed I touch my husband’s leg with my foot. I rub his shin. When I’ve cried all my tears I feel peace. I look in the mirror and see it all as lovely. I don’t see evil faces; I see tired eyes and fine lines. When my son buries his head in my legs and grips me, I feel very real. Really in love.
Working out the grit in the junction of two lives is always a challenge. My husband doesn’t condone my irresponsibility, while I don’t care for his chiding. But I still want to snuggle him and he still wants to protect me. We don’t quite see eye to eye on the issue of one or two—children, that is, not donuts. I remember going for walks with him while he was glued to the viewfinder of his camera, and I was in no rush because he meant the world to me. I remember how he used to wear his dragon robe in the morning. This rumpled gamer was my star. I don’t want to forget these things. I don’t want to forget how good and warm it feels to kiss.
“I’m so, so sorry,” my little one says and my heart twangs. “It’s okay sweetie.” He’s a meek little kitten. “Can I hug you Daddy?” he says and sits up on my hubby’s stomach. “I love you Daddy.” Moments like these are white marsh mellows caught aflame, so tender and powerfully moving. Hard to imagine the teenage years might be hug shunning ones. I hope he always gives me secret hugs and kisses and says “I love you,” spontaneously.