The after

This is the moment just before the After.

The moment when all the dreams were still the same, the moment when you were still here.

I don't know what you knew, if you knew, but I do know I hope you weren't afraid. I do know I hope you knew and felt our love.

This rocky year has me still unsure how to do the rest of my time, and the year, the After, still feels unreal.

But I do know you left a piece of your strength, and step by step, I take it slow, holding your love.

Lucy Van Pelt

Sometimes I spend a lot of time pondering my drabble before I write them. I craft the words with care, seeking to illustrate a specific point and tell a particular story. Each word is delicately placed and carefully reviewed before publishing. Other times I am like Lucy Van Pelt when she writes her book report on Peter Rabbit and writes it to the very very very very very end. It is all about the word count, you see. Gotta get to one hundred words. Dear Reader, I shall let you determine and decide what type of drabble this one is.

rough days

Rough days. They happen. Today was one of them. It feels like the world is smaller. Its gravity is stronger. The consequences more severe. The pain more real. A quick cry in the car. Go lie on the floor of my friend’s new apartment and wait for more friends to arrive. I ramble cryptically. Offer one of the people around me half of my life. We negotiate down to one third. My partner takes me home. I step away, be alone. When I resurface, he’s at the bottom of the stairs awkwardly holding a very full, hot cup of tea.

tea

tea finds its way into our writing our poetry our drabbles liquid capable of conquering empires raising dynasties giving birth to war that inspired the child to invent a language and pursue love that stains an old pot by the kettle by the sink waiting to be filled and poured out into perfect cups poured out over perfect conversations like the poet leaning over the back of a lounge yearning to find the words for the magic that no one has yet to put together just the right way that stirs the heart like milk in a cup of tea

Makeup

I bought new mascara today. I think it has been over a year since I bought mascara. I may or may not have put it on in the car after I dabbed on some concealer. And, talk straight here, who really has time for a full face of makeup at 6:30 in the morning? Not that I even know how to do a half face. Lucky for me, I'm a fan of the natural look. And I'm sure that has nothing to do with not knowing or caring how makeup works on my face. I've never been that creative.

Dream

Why is it that we call our hopes and aspirations dreams? Why do we relegate our deep desires for the future to the realm of sleep? Where nothing makes sense and time is irrelevant. Where the past, the present, and the future all get mixed up together in our heads. Perhaps it is our attempt to reclaim the confusion and chaos. Maybe in calling our forward-thinking wishes dreams, we bring the power of imagination and rest to bear as we march ceaselessly onward. We dream in the dark, an involuntary action. Let us also dream voluntarily in the light.

Rain

It is a gentle sound until it's not. It is a welcome visitor until it's not. And the rain just continues going and going and going and we believe it might never end. But the trees keep blooming, the grass keeps getting greener, the waterways keep getting fuller. And the rain keeps falling. Welcomed or not, it simply continues tapping on windows and roofs, a musical rhythm written by the nascent season. The baptism of spring bringing forth life after death. The heavenly sprinkling for the thirsty ground. The cleansing stream across the earth. Wash away. Wash away. Wash away.

journey

That evening she sat staring at the incredible, abundant, extravagant beauty her friends, family, neighbors, and acquaintances had delivered to her. Still unsure of why and wondering what to do with so many flowers and plants, she wept. Tears that overwhelmed her. What love was this? What motivation did so many people have to visit and wish her well. What journey they spoke of… and slowly her heart swelled. It takes time for the spirit of a human to understand. To comprehend. The journey she was taking was one she would never be able to share with them. The living.

mysterious

All day friends stopped by her home. The first arrived at 7:26 am on her way to work. With flowers. Each of them who could come themselves dropped off a small bouquet or potted plant. Three different flower delivery vans came by that day, each dropping off multiple gifts. The day went on and on. Visitor after visitor coming by, saying hello, sharing love and well wishes, then vanishing, leaving flowers in their wake. It wasn’t her birthday, it wasn’t a holiday, she wasn’t grieving or celebrating anything that she knew of. But someone had planned this. A mysterious day.

To the mothers

To the mothers who have never seen their children except as pink stripes on a plastic stick. To the mothers who have never seen their children except as black and white ultrasound images. To the mothers who have never known their children except by the love they carry in their hearts and the pain they carry deep in their bones. To the mothers who have felt death in their wombs, who have known their bodies as a grave. To the mothers whose arms are empty. You are a mother. This is your day too. I am you. Happy Mother's Day.

Spring

There is a tipping point in spring. After the grey brutality of winter teasing us with glimpses of hope then coming back in raging force, when it seems winter may never truly be over, something subtle changes. A deep and true warmth, untainted by Jack Frost's bitter chill. A floral scent on the air. The new green of the baby maple leaves creeping bravely sunward. It happens slowly, beneath the surface until suddenly it bursts forth in force. Winter is truly and properly over. Spring has come. The stone table has cracked. What once was dead has come to life.

Words

The best way to beat writer's block is to push through it. Put the words down. Pen to paper, typing to keyboard, words to screen. Let the words out and don't judge them. The block will fade, the wall will crumble. Start somewhere. Don't worry about the destination, where the thing is headed. Don't fret about what comes next, the subsequent story. Push through. Write something then write some more. The words will come. One word turns into ten words turns into one paragraph turns into the story. Don't grow weary in the struggle. Keep going, keep going, keep going.

Groove

I have always thought of music as having grooves. Maybe it is from watching records being played. Maybe it is just how my brain works. But the melody is its own groove and each harmony runs parallel to the melody. Lines stretching on for infinity, perfectly harmonized. No dissonance or clashing, just beauty. I open my mouth to sing and I find my groove. This is the only way I know how to sing harmony. Find the groove, stay in the groove. If I go sharp or flat, I've lost my groove. Music is easy. Just gotta find your groove.

Cook

Cook, verb: to combine different ingredients to make an edible substance. A pinch of this, a dab of that, a dollop of something more. Or perhaps slightly more precise. One teaspoon of this, one tablespoon of that, three cups of something more. It doesn't really matter how to get there. The matter is the magic. In the scent of memories wafting through the air. In the feel of history in the bowl. In the future of nourishment yet to come. In the way it possesses a language unto itself. Cook, noun: one with the power to show love through food.

Screen

Because really what are we without our screens? The human face is frightening. There are emotions there. Hope, fear, love, anger. Eyes open, window to soul. Much easier to hold the rest of humanity at arm's length. I can put the phone down wherever and whenever it suits me. I don't have to look at your face. I don't have to recognize imago Deo in the pigment of your skin, the wave of your hair, the color of your eyes.  Much easier to reduce you to pixels on my screen no more than 2.5 inches wide by 7 inches tall.