Growing Pains

The earth opened up and pushed me over the edge. The dark was dark and only a seed of hope rested in my back pocket. Words swirled and spun around me, but I climbed and screamed and fought. I made it out and not one step was alone, even though at times I felt lonely. My nails were rugged and my gritted teeth cracked. But here I am, a little wiser, a little more gentle, and a lot more understanding.

It Was Good

First thing today, is to figure out how he will love her. He loves her, that isn’t the question. But how would he show her? Yesterday, it was with a small note, I love you handwritten on it that hid underneath her tea cup. A teacup he picked out for her and filled with black tea he steeped the way she likes it. But, today was a new day and another chance to figure out how to love her. He walked to the kitchen and leaned against the counter to think. He looked around at the bills scattered in front of the Keurig and the pile of discarded recyclables by the trash. He takes a deep breath and fear overwhelms his thoughts. That feeling of not being good enough weighs him down. But she needs his love and so he pushes through it. I’ll find something in the living room. Toys surround the perimeter of the room. The plastic, colorful, and imaginative toys lighten his mood. But, his fears whisper the word tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow it will be easier he agrees. And sits in the rocking chair his wife nurses in. It’s an awkward chair, not his first choice, but it was for her. There’s no use in waiting a voice from inside says. He reaches into his pocket for a small notebook he carries around with him at work and goes to his disheveled desk for a pen hidden by months worth of mail to be organized. He walks back to sit in the awkward chair and taps his chin. Eyes shut tight, he writes I love you because you exist and I love that. Those words are embarrassing to him, but he knows she needs to hear it. So he tears the paper from his small notebook and stands up to leave it on her seat. He walks away and turns to look at the note. I should rewrite it. He takes a step. No, no she will like it. It’s good enough.  

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.