“And can you handle that which you’ve awakened in me? All the passion, the inspiration, the love?” she asked him. “All those things I feared dead, you have breathed life into.”
Tric over at My Thoughts on a Page, recently asked for letter submissions. The letter could be written to anyone and about anything. I took the opportunity to write a letter to my grandmother. I miss her and think of her often on days like today, when the weather begins to turn warm and my thoughts drift to planting flowers and I hear the birds singing.
Sometimes writing a letter to loved ones who are gone gives us a chance to tell them things we never did while they were still of this earth., and can be quite therapeutic. Who would you write to if you had the chance?
She knew as the word was forming in her throat, at the exhale of the breath that carried the sound, as it passed her lips, that it was the wrong thing to say. She had said yes.
She had told him yes, and it made her feel just a little bit sick to her stomach. Why had she said yes? She knew she didn’t love him that way; not in the way you should love someone you want to spend the rest of your life with, so why would she tell him yes?
It wasn’t fair to tell him yes and not mean it. It set things in motion. What external forces were going to stop what that word had set in motion?
That yes led to another yes and another and another. Until she no longer knew how to say anything else. It’s not that she didn’t want to. She wanted to scream “NO!” at the top of her lungs and stop the stream, but her throat had grown so accustomed to saying yes, she couldn’t form an “n”.
So she started small. She changed the tone of how she said yes. She changed the inflection of how she said yes. She changed the pitch of how she said yes. And he noticed. And he didn’t like it.
Then she stopped saying it so regularly. One less yes per day and before she knew it, she was down to one final yes. She saved that yes, just in case she needed it some day.
And finally the time came when he said to her, “I don’t love you anymore, and I don’t think you ever really loved me like I loved you. I want to be free to find another who will love me like I deserve to be loved, and you can be free to find that too. Will you give me a divorce?”
And she said yes. And this time, she really meant it.
*This was written in response to a post I read the other day on The Things I See Up Here, regarding The Yes Movement. It got me thinking about all the times I have said yes in my life, and all the things that simple word sets in motion. I wish I could’ve come up with a really uplifting, positive yes story, but the first thing that came to my mind was a time when I had said yes and didn’t really mean yes. Such a double-sided coin is yes, that it reminds of some of my favorite Rush Lyrics, “If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice”. In other words, if you don’t say yes, then in essence you are saying no.
Yes can be scary as hell sometimes. Yes means taking a risk and jumping without a safety net. Yes can be exhilarating. You never know how yes is going to wind up, or where yes might take you. Yes may turn out to be a very valuable lesson, or yes may be the love of your life. I am saying yes a lot more these days; yes to my happiness, and yes to knowing I deserve good stuff in my life. What do you want to say yes to? Just say yes, and set some things in motion in your life!
like a broken thermometer
so many tiny balls of poison(my insecurities)
hither and yon
gather them before anyone sees
it seems impossible to contain them
just when I think I’ve got them all gathered
the pieces shatter
into more pieces
the number seems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . infinite. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
run and fetch the eyedropper
to suck up the toxic little balls
before they infiltrate
sprinkle the sulfur and contain
every minute trace of the
seal them all up in a bag
dispose of them
like the hazardous waste
that they are
and the shortest distance
between our two points
is my mind
you meet me there
with open arms and a smile
so real at times
I feel your lips brushing my cheek
or feel your hand in mine
or hear your heart beating as I curl against you and lay my head on your chest
My body tells a story.
Every scar, every wrinkle, every stretch mark, every tattoo, every gray hair,
Reminds me of who I am and where I have come from.
It tells me that once I was a daredevil on roller skates and a bike,
That I have laughed millions of times, and that my face has been salted by tears.
It shows the marks of a mother’s love;
one whom I have had the pleasure of loving intensely and close-up,
and another from far away who will never understand the limits of my love.
See my love for nature, and my birthplace, and one of the most beautiful flowers I know because of its wildness and simplicity?
And my longing for water because it soothes the turbulence in me?
See my desire for flight from all that binds my soul? My longing to cast off others’ ideas about me and my quest to be beautiful in my own right and to love freely?
My need to feel balance in my life which seems so off-kilter at times because of my intense passions?
Oh, and there’s that graying hair,
Peeking through the fiery red I have applied which represents my personality so well.
I will never let the world see my true age, at least in my hair, because I feel younger than my 43 years.
Do you see my story?
It sings my song. . . .
**I came across this while I was digging through files in my computer today in search of tax information. In another month I will be 45. I have more wrinkles. I have more scars. I have more gray hair; which I now attempt to cover with something besides the fiery red. My body still sings my song. Nothing will silence it, but in the end it’s just a house. A house for my soul, which is the most beautiful part of me.
Still histrionic, still a bookwhore; just faking competence because of my kid.
i've choked on my words for far too long
It's not the length of life, but the depth.
A great WordPress.com site
Where Sarcasm Gets Drunk and Let's Its Hair Down
A blog of my struggles with mental illness, social isolation and being transgender n a hostile world.
Shining the light of truth on delusion
Researching, investigating, and writing about the paranormal.
You either get it... or you don't.
Inky blackness, a yawning void ~
oh what's the point.
"Eye Fly High"
A weekly series edited by Jena Schwartz
My business is generally pleasurable.
Read. Ingest the words. Like little blue pills, they will affect you.
the stories behind the pictures, and vice versa
Just my thoughts for all to behold
FOR DISCERNING READERS
🍃 Fully Living The Unfinished Things Of Life Through Writings. 🍃
A baking and dessert blog.
Writer, Dark Humorist, Novelist
a little bit of this and a little bit of that
Seeking Beauty Beyond the Scars
The home of Emma O'Brien