Today was the day. Today they would meet. Scott sighed, looking out at the seagulls in the river as they stood on old pilings, with sea lions going up and down in the water on the upriver side of the pilings. The different animals cared nothing for one another, yet they both seemed to show up in places that had pockets of fish.
Touch Me Not
What does the touch look like in your life? Yesterday, I put my hand on my friend’s shoulder during a live presentation we were watching, and they looked at my hand instead of looking at my face. The question here was ‘Why are you touching me?’, rather than, ‘Yes, what is it?’, and that stayed with me. I thought I was getting their attention to have them look in my face so I could quietly let them know I would be going to the restroom. I asked them about the touch later, and I found out it was inappropriate, and unappreciated. I have known them for over three years, known them well, and this situation yesterday is a powerful reminder to me that for some people, being touched instinctively raises suspicions and causes their guard to go up. I am supposed to know this, and act accordingly, my friend’s history prior to our meeting is irrelevant. It is uniquely compounded with difficulty because I am touch-starved. It was ingrained in me from a young age that touch is vital and desired, and that “good touches are always appreciated.” That is a direct quote from my mother, circa 1975.
Repurposed with Love
Checking the mail It wasn’t that long ago that I fell in love with a widowed gentleman. He would check his mail “to see if anybody loved” him, and would return smiling, even if it was only a bill waiting in the box. This gripped me, for I had long loved greeting cards, and bought them randomly over a period of years if they were pretty or amusing or unique. I bought the ones that made me feel something, and that I could imagine others would like. My collection was a reflection of part of me. I bought the cards, yet there had been no reason, no purpose or person in mind other than to recapture the feeling it had given to me the first time I saw it or read it.
Freedom To Love
Laura said her good-byes, her heart in her throat, and walked resolutely to her car. She could tell from the looks in their eyes before she left that they weren't sure what she should do, either. All except Johnny. His eyes spoke of yearning. They were, in fact, a mirror of her own heart. She yearned for him, and had for nearly a dozen years, though now doubts shadowed her thoughts. Insecurities had made a tight knot deep inside about his want of her, for how long would it last, as his life rapidly changed for the better? Her life had been on hold for the day, well, for the coming of THIS day, and so far it had been anti-climactic.
“If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude.” Maya Angelou It would have been easy to pick any of the beautiful women that have resisted, pushed forward, marched, motivated, or been martyred for others through words and actions. There is a long list of those many of us acknowledge, and surely a much longer list of those that we do not. I have chosen to share with you about one that is not well known, yet her works, and indeed, what she chose not to do in her life, had lasting impact in the lives of many.
Trigger me. He commented on the picture I posted of the food I had made... “So the food looks as tasty as you do.”
Letter to my friend… How can I make you understand that my phone is not an addiction, but yes, a distraction, from the pain? I know what I know about you, and the many others that have no idea about my pain, and I realize there is absolutely no way to explain it in a way that you could grasp this anguish; the days and nights without his touch, the dreams, the nightmares, the memories, and now, the worst yet, the inability to remember certain things about my late husband. Oh, I remember him, because he’s unforgettable, but in my efforts to distract myself from the pain that made me want to die a thousand deaths to avoid the waxing and waning from emptiness to sorrow, the sharpness of certain things dull. Ironically, now I mourn for the loss of the feeling, though cerebral, of his hand in mine in the middle of the night when my sleep was disturbed. I mourn for the reassurance from the times, in our beginning, when I still had the horrific nightmares that had plagued me for years. He bore it with me, and held me, even as I fought the invisible demons of the night.
The Sexual Optative
“I know you,” he said. He was close to me, close enough to whisper his words, and they still thundered in my ear. I felt the warmth of this closeness, and his breath smelled like coffee and caramel. I glanced up from the organic produce, kiwi in my hand, but only so I could see his lips, because if I had ever kissed them, I would know. Medium lips, pouting in the middle, by nature and not intent, and a sharp jaw line. He had dark hair, yet no beard or moustache. Chest hair peaked out of the top of his button-down flannel shirt, and I saw a couple silvery ones, too.