I’m standing under the ‘Cake Mix’ sign in a Jewel-Osco aisle trying not to have a meltdown or pee, both of which I desperately need to do. First, vanilla or chocolate? Funfetti? She never likes anything. Should I even make a cake or just get the cake mix for cupcakes? Can you make brownies with cake mix? Because brownies would be more casual. After that, THIS is the trick right here. She’s not even going to come, so you make as well pick something you like since you’re the one going to be cry-eating it alone tomorrow night reading her texts full of lies and bad excuses. And of course, why don’t they more prominently display where the restrooms are in this place??? I have 10 minutes left to finish this errand, $13.20 in my bank account, and 3 hours until Mallory presumably arrives at O-Hare Airport for her birthday weekend.
When my Joey made his transition to Heaven, I was left with unending pain, and a host of "firsts" that provide a mountain of thoughts and tears. Joey left on November 5th, 2019 - I stumbled through Thanksgiving, Christmas was Hell, then New Years, where I spent the entire day in bed crying. January 21st, his 35th birthday.... My heart continued to shatter as I remembered all his birthdays and the moment of his birth. Then came Easter - one of my favorite memories are Easter Sundays with both my boys.... oh how I miss those days.
This day was incredible just before COVID 19 came along to slow us all down an tuck ourselves away in our safe nest, we took a drive to Bowral stopped for lunch at a local cafe and then took a walk along a walking track along the river, the sun was warm and amazing it was quiet and so peaceful, until on the Walking track we came across a massive brown snake that put us all in a panic.
Everyone has a dark past. Including Maryam. And hers is something too humiliating to tell. Too vivid to forget. A memory she so desperately prays to erase from her mind. Maryam always prays. Raised as a Muslim, she was taught and trained to oblige and beseech for God’s forgiveness. Five times a day. Yet she can never seem to shake off her past. It keeps lurking around. Stalking. Waiting to pounce and stab her in the back. The more she tries to break away, the more it strangles her. Her dark past is one odd story. One with no marked beginning nor definitive end.
My eyes appear in the dark, the jade encircling the noir. I maul an idea until I notice a rhythm, a pattern. My pupils focus; I see the downward motion—pushing, pulling, biting, I throw my head back, hands down, unleashing a compact bliss. My own depth darts to me, moving toward the French doors, looking for leaves that sway until the incapacitating winter. The wheat bristles wave and the leaves shake me. My mind runs to something banal as my hand runs down my body; my skin awakens. The twilight air flows in, and my mind, awake, turns toward my heart, inducing an anxious bliss that wakes me up and simultaneously kills me. To breathe at once into consciousness, an anxious flush makes way through nervous bundles and the axonal abyss, shooting stars into my heart. This rush is a shock that tumbles me into the darkness, into the woods and looking at myself while looking at everything else. The waking are startled in a hunt for green, seeking a letter that lost itself on its way to me. Like the purloined letter, I remain unaware of the message’s contents.