Grace

I have thought about writing it permanently on my wrist.  Maybe in red.  “Don’t forget this moment.”  It’s never the pretty ones I want to remember, those always get a photograph.  It’s the ones where my blood is boiling.  The ones where I am on the verge of a scream.  The ones where there is oatmeal all over the floor and someone’s feelings are hurt.  THIS TIME.  Do it differently.  Remember THIS time.  I am too full of mistakes to let half my life go.  We are born a pile of broken bones.  It takes a lifetime to pick them up and stitch their brittleness back together.  Threading them with the acceptance we are not perfect.  I am grateful for the thick resilience of skin.  The way is stretches, morphs, and glistens.  I have to have faith it all counts.  The sleeplessness, the wet beds, the ugly parenting.  The disagreements, the unruly mess, the snarly hair.  These parts of me are beautiful too.  I am trying to allow myself to feel the broken so I can devour the heal.  Know that there will come a time I will do it differently.  A time when I listen only to the small chirping of my heart. 
{honored to have this photo and writing be a part of THE CHORUS - a coming together of women artists' imagery and voice.  follow the link for other writings and photos on 'time'}

Thread

I keep my grandmother's apron rolled in a narrow ball.  Pilled, worn to a fray.  Furling edges.  Deep pockets with rows of flowers, orderly and tight.  I see my fingers from afar when I pull it out, and become loose in my own skin.  Sometimes all it takes is a touch to bring me back.  Brillo.  Olive oil.  Wooden cabinets with plastic liners.  Spearmint leaves, rosary beads and unwound tissues.  Memories roll around inside like huge steel balls.  Bumping my ribs and skin.  I am too small for the space they need.  They leave huge, soft bruises, black as night.  The memory of her table.  The sound of their TV.  The smell of peppers and skinned tomatoes.  I am little - my girl hands plunged in those apron pockets.  I am safe.  Unaware.  Full.  My hair is blowing in the wind, but I sit inside.  The sun is on my face, but I am at her kitchen table.  I hear nothing but birds and boiling water, and feel the warmth of her eyes on my skin.  The sound of her calling my name.  Her voice lands in my palms.  I've caught it like a sparrow.  

Now -- I look at my daughter.  Scan her smooth face, and her eyes, black as pools.  What memories will bring her back to me when I am gone?  What will wake her in the night?  What string will she swing for blindly, and find?  What will be the thread that leads her heart back to mine?

{honored to have this photo and writing be a part of THE CHORUS - a coming together of women artists' imagery and voice.  follow the link for other writings and photos on 'memory'}