Tag: short reads

Crackle
Autobiography · Mental Health

Crackle

Ruby PipesLeave a comment

Three sick kids join forces for pho, ginger tea, and nighttime cold medicine. It’s a special kind of misery that is nice to share. When you know you’re not in it alone. And you know it’s going to pass.

My alarm goes off in the morning and I hear cars driving by down on the street. Tires on wet road sound like the rise and fall of applause, ushering in the day. “Good job. We’re glad you came.”

Outside the air is warmer than expected, but still cool enough to feel good on my face. Windows down, radio up. I sing quietly over the crackling bass as I merge onto the interstate. It’s going to be a good day. We’re going to be okay.

Photo courtesy of Maria Stiehler.

Roses
Autobiography · Poetry · Relationships

Roses

Ruby Pipes4 Comments

Fingers busy.
Knitting yarn, stringing beads.
We create and teardown simultaneously.

I slept until noon on Monday.
Haven’t done that since…
I can’t remember when.
Nadine said I must have needed it,
but my headache disagreed.

I skipped showering two days in a row.
Planned the next four months, but did mostly nothing.
Ate M&Ms and finished watching Breaking Bad again.
Let myself take it easy.
Forgot the idea I have to earn downtime.
Just breathed.

We shared a dinner and played a game of rummy.
Family time has taken on new meaning and
I curl up into it.
Wrap it around me like the scarf he’s making.
Wear it like the jewelry I created.

I go to bed before Andrew, but
he joins me.
Gently climbs in and pulls me to him.
All arms and legs and sheets.

The world is softening around me.
Rose petals peeling back and
revealing smells of sweetness.
When pollen tickles our noses
we all feel the same thing.
And I’m surprised when I’m not afraid of it.
When I let it climb over me.

Photo courtesy of Jared Doyle.

Autobiography · Relationships

Together

Ruby Pipes4 Comments

"rot" © Dean McCoy, 2012. CC BY 2.0.
“rot” © Dean McCoy, 2012. CC BY 2.0.
At one in the morning he climbs in bed next to me. Lips at the back of my neck, our arms and legs tangling. He whispers confessions so sweet they can only be said in the dark.

The sun comes up and he tells me that every word still drips with honesty. He does not shy away from loving. Doesn’t shy away from anything.

A life conceived of saying what we mean. Openness and validation. Reassurances and listening.

During dinner he makes me laugh until my belly aches and I finally remember what it feels like to be excited about living. Not even sure if “remember” is the right word. This is new.

We are all hand holding and bleach-scented hotel sheets. A new beginning that gets to be whatever we want it to be.

When everyone else leaves the room, he leans in to kiss me. All soft lips and safety, his hands engulf my body.

I finally understand what it feels like to not be fumbling. Roots. Wings.

He loves me steadily. An exponential graph of passion and longing welcomed happily.

Still life. All shadows and light. Everything about him is home. Comforting.

And when he goes to sleep I rest my hand on his hip and pull him into me. Knowing that I want to be right here for as long as he’ll let me.