Home Alone

Today has been my first day home alone in an empty house. Alone. The only sounds I hear are the washer and the air purifier. It’s musical. When my husband first left with the kiddos I felt like a kid in the candy store. I was rushing around trying to figure out what I wanted to do first. I had to rip myself away from the cleaning I do when everyone is home so I could actually enjoy my time alone. I decided to turn on the Keurig so that the water would be heated by the time I’m done taking my shower. I am a woman who requires a lot of freedom, but on the other hand, I will so loosely pass that up for my children. I just know, one day, they’re going to be gone living their own lives and I am passionate about investing in my children’s future.

I had to make sure I wrote this down so that I can always come back and appreciate this moment.

Cafe Stories

The cafe is slow and steady but my writing is sporadic, hiding between thoughts of four hundred word challenges and how I have to get the hair out of the bathroom sink. Images from “The Ring” whistle by and I notice a wasp kill a random bug outside the cafe window. Or maybe it was his own butt the whole time. I’ll never know. The truth is I didn’t feel like writing about the wasp or anything else happening right in front of me but I couldn’t make up anything else more interesting.

Still Written

There are many times I give away my time to write. I give it and give it and give till I’m writing 10 words and starving for solitude. I know I should hang on tighter to my time to write. I should be more demanding but it’s such a slippery thing. It shifts and molds in countless ways. I grip, then I give my last five minutes and I’m left grasping at nothing. I slip away because writing isn’t something that can come or go. I, the writer am coming and going. Writing does not cry without me, I cry without it. I ache and spiral and shift when I’ve strayed too far, but it is always as I left it, blank, unfinished, or completed. But when I return I won’t be exactly the same as I was when I left.

-Saschia On Writing

Just an Ordinary Day

The cafe had steady business. It just got all new furniture dark wooden tables and chairs. Every seat was taken besides a few that were in the middle of it all. Coffee scent stained my sweater and the scarf I wore in but realized it was too warm. I tossed it beside my leg on the bench. When ordering I wanted to try something new but the pressure was too great so I ordered the usual hot chai tea latte. While I waited for my drink I read the headlines on the newspapers stacked not so neatly on the rack. Nothing was interesting enough to make me want to open one of them.

A Bag Full of Freedom

I wake up chug a cup of water in my reusable Starbuck’s cup

gotta make sure I have enough milk made forĀ  the baby

sniff my pits and decide they smell fresh enough to skip a shower

I put on white leggings and look at my butt in the mirror only to notice

my panties show right through

So I pick a long short from my floral lined basket of folded shirts

I folded them when I was in the mood

I make myself sausage eggs and two pieces of french toast

this time for myself

not for the milk maker

I yell and scream about women’s rights then walk away

to fill another bottle of water

I pump for 20 minutes

put ointment on to prevent getting thrush

or from getting some infection I’d get from open wounds

and then gather Plath, Bukowski, Poe, Rimbaud, and [S.K.] Nicholas

into my bag

I grab my computer pretend to be happy

grab some pens and my keys and head out the door

I could take the Subie but I choose to take the Matrix

which is older and and smellier

so my husband who had the baby had a car seat

and I drive and I think about where I want to eat

and if I even want to eat again

 

-Saschia

 

Little purple person

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