Torn scraps covered in scribbles are becoming the book of us. History. Non-fiction. A working novella. Our character flaws m a t e r i a l i z e in ink at my steady hand. Each phrase packed with a m a g n i t u d e of meaning. Making immortal moments longings and unresolve. The plot is thick with tenderness and heartbreak. ...
I just want to cry into her shirt like I used to. Freshly laundered and warm. I just want her to softly caress my tangled hair and whisper in my ear, “You’re going to be okay.” Over and over and over. Until it f i n a l l y becomes t r u e. 12.15.11
“Just tell it to keep beating.” The words of wisdom that my mother has given to me are rare. But these pearls are part of my inheritance from her. They hang on a thin strand next to my heart, weary as it is. But with each s l o w labored pump it still beats and beats and beats. As it should. As it must. 12.18.11