With my divorce, my name change, and the completely new and different life I now have, I’ve decided to stop printing my first book. The last ten copies are signed and for sale from me on Amazon.
I hope to write another collection of poems and creative nonfiction pieces in the next year. It will be exciting to see the difference between the content and feel of the two. Here’s hoping for something lighter.
To wrap up 2015 I’m giving away a signed copy of my book!
To enter, send an email to rubyabrowne[at]gmail.com with your name and address by January 5th.
I’ll select a winner randomly, but everyone who enters will get a handwritten thank you note from yours truly. It’s the best way I can think of closing 2015.
It’s been a hell of a year, y’all. Though I can’t say I’ll miss it a whole lot, I’m forever grateful for the little community we’ve grown here over the last year. I’m really excited to see what kind of strides we can all make together in 2016. I think it’s going to be one of our best years yet.
I won’t be posting again until January 4th, but when we come back we’re going to have Monday through Friday posts. That’s right. Five posts each week instead of just two. We’re also going to have an exciting new format, including guest posts from writers I love. I can’t wait to share some of their work with you over the next year.
As always, thank you so much for reading, for following, for your love and support. Your kind words and well wishes have gotten me through some of my roughest times this year. I wouldn’t have done it without you.
I’ll see you all in 2016.
At breakfast, bright notes of lemon and dill dance across my tongue in a decadent hollandaise. My coffee is a full-bodied mug of caramel. The linen of my freshly-bleached napkin is soft and tender as it kisses the skin poking out from underneath the edge of my dress. Silverware catches the light, shimmering unapologetic up at me and I use it to cut through layers of poached egg, cured meat, and English muffin. Each ingredient marries the next. Ice clinks in glasses, the murmur of the cafe rises and falls like waves lapping the beach. Nobody shares my booth and I bask in the solitude of morning. But I am wearing gloves. Covered in plastic wrap. I am trapped inside a bubble, twice removed.
I leave the restaurant and put my headphones in. Turn the music up loud and the melody climbs down my spine, cradling my bones. The bass moves my legs and I fall in step with it. But the sound remains muffled, like listening to it through a tunnel. No matter how much I increase the volume, it can’t get through the glass I’m standing under.
On my walk I touch every piece of plant matter I pass. I caress fresh leaves between finger tips, feel their veins pulsing. The fog collects on the collar of my jacket and shimmies down the back of my neck, cold and wet. I drag my fists along the concrete walls until my knuckles bloody, but my hands do not belong to me. Someone far away must be feeling these things.
At night my husband lays his head on the hollow of my chest where my shoulder and torso connect. My breath falls in rhythm with his slowly. Comfortable and quiet, almost nonexistent. His smell is safe and familiar, but distant. An old shirt he left here weeks ago, not him.
Floating on the ceiling, I watch us lying in bed. And I wonder if I’ll ever find my way back into that body again.