Annabelle.

Today is my grandmother's birthday.

I miss you, Grandma Annie.

Sometimes I still sneak over to your old hutch, in the corner of our entryway.  I open up the cupboard doors, and take a gentle, deep inhale.  Mom has lovingly left your favorite potpourri crouched in the corner of the cupboard for the past nineteen years.

It still smells just like you.   When I close my eyes and breathe it in, I can just faintly see the corners of your stunning smile in my mind.

Your birthday, this 28th of August, is perched ever-so-faintly on the edge of Summer, in the outstretched arms of Fall.

When I think of my memories of you, they look like Autumn and fog.  I feel your warmth when the pumpkin spiced candles are lit, and the smell of rain lingers on the still-heavy Summer air outside.

Some days I get frustrated, because I was so young when you died.  I don't really have many memories to hold tightly to in these moments of overwhelming sentimentality.

I remember the cookies you used to make me and Kailey and Kelsey.  I remember taking naps on your couch. I watched Dumbo on your tiny, old-fashioned television.

I remember the red coloring book and the basket of crayons in the cabinet under the TV.

I remember sitting on the floor of your empty apartment after you died.

I would go there for years after.  Mom would free me from my schoolwork, and I would rush to play outside.  Sometimes, in quiet moments, I would walk over to the little house you lived in, attached to our garage.  I would open the creaky door.  Inside, mostly empty.  A few items remained in the cupboards in your kitchen.  A table here, sometimes a leftover couch there, from when mom was re-decorating and re-arranging our own living room. 

I'd sit there, on the floor, and soak up the scent and the heaviness.  Even when I was just a little child.

One time I found a spider in your bathtub, and I was so angry that another living thing dared to invade your home and call it theirs.  I ran the water, watching it drown with a solemnity only a child can pervade.

Do you remember how when I was a tiny child, I would gather flowers for you and toddle over to your house on extremely shaky legs and reach out my grubby, chubby little hands full of weeds and dandelions for you?

You always took them.  You always put them in a vase.  You always kissed me.

You were so sick.  Your body racked with so much pain. So much cancerous poison.

You loved us all so much.

The only picture with you that I have is one of you cradling me in your weak arms when I was a very little baby.

Happy Birthday, Grandma.

If you were still alive today, things would be so different.

Sometimes I wonder how your heart would beat, if you were alive to see your family now.

There are so many different directions all of our lives have taken, just like any normal family experiences.

In some ways, I wonder if it's better that you're not around.  Selfishly, I desperately wish that you were.

It swells and expands with the most intensity around holidays, and on your birthday- and I just wish you were still here so we could honor you in person.  I wish that I was climbing into my car now, headed home from my workday, excited to sit at a full table, all of our family gathered around with candles lit and dinner simmering on the stove.  I can see you sitting next to my mother, laughing with such mirth at something my father said, reaching out to grab the hand of my Aunt Missy- arms and eyes always outstretched for my Aunt Lynn, waiting in anticipation for the impending arrival of your only son.

My sisters and my cousins smile in the light of your warmth, your glow, your angelic atmosphere.  As we each make our way to your side, for a hug. For a kiss.  For a forehead-to-forehead blessing.  A reminder of the love Jesus has for us, and the sacrifice He's made for us, alive in the love and sacrifices that you made daily in your time here on earth.

Those individuals who are fully grown and still have grandparents around that are deeply involved in their lives don't understand how truly lucky they are.

I know it's selfish to wish for your presence again on this uncertain earth, when you are so at home and at such final peace in the arms of our Savior in Heaven.  I'm sorry I wish for it constantly. 

Just know that, while they may not celebrate birthdays in Heaven anymore, we're still celebrating your birthday at home today.  We miss you.  We love you. 

Thank you for watching over our family. 

Thank you for the constant struggle and sacrifice which was the short, unfair span of your life. 

You never complained.  Never faltered.  You shot praise up to our Lord and King at the beginning and end of every day.  You created a legacy lasting long and healthy in our family. You have 4 grand-daughter namesakes, and 2 great-granddaughter namesakes as yet, and more will come, I promise.

Thank you for teaching our mothers how to set beautiful tables, and for teaching our mothers how to cook such warm, nourishing meals.  Thank you for loving our fathers into the family as your own sons.  Thank you for teaching our parents about sacrifice.

They've taught your lessons to us, in turn, and someday, when the rest of us have our own chance, those lessons will trickle down into our own homes and families as well.

I know that you're alive up there, and healthy.  Young, and beautiful.  You have all of the expanse of eternity to make breathtaking bouquets with all of the wildflowers in Heaven, and I know that brings your soul so much joy.  Just know that you have given all of us that much joy, too, by allowing us to be born and created into your family.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

I'm always missing you.

Happy Birthday.

Hugs.

"There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it.  Or you kill yourself.  Or you stop looking in mirrors." - Tennessee Williams.

Sometimes you just miss someone.

It sort of takes over your whole body.

Your arms are sore.  It's like they remember what it feels like to be wrapped around that person, and they ache because they're empty.

Your head feels heavy.  There is no tight chest-space for it to be squeezed against in big, encompassing hugs. No trunk-like shoulder to rest it on in moments of quiet exhaustion.

Hugs are the most beautiful invention of physicality that human beings share.

Sometimes when you are a hopeless cuddler, you just need a hug to make the world a little less loud.

Rarely does that special hug come your way right when you need it.

Every now and then, it does.  I can remember a few specific moments in my life where hugs have literally shown up in the exact moment I needed them to, and changed life as I knew it from that point forward.

More often than not, though, you end up pacing the floor of your room back and forth, staring at old pictures and pulling at the sore muscles in your neck, wishing for a pair of hands to work out the knots that you work tirelessly to re-create time and time again, without meaning to.

You rub your eyes.  You refuse to sleep.

There's books on your bedside table- you're tired of reading someone else's words.

Sometimes I take a look at my own life and I realize how hopeless I am.  I complain all of the time.  I wish for things I don't have.  I waste so much effort and breath talking about how hard my own life is- and how tired my own body feels, and how restless my own mind gets at night.

How can I ever expect to love and serve someone else before myself?

I am so overwhelmingly selfish.

I complain constantly.

Contentment is a constant struggle.

How did I end up like this?

Why is it so hard to be comfortable and content with your own life?

Why is greed such an all-consuming temptation?

All of these questions just make me hug my pillow tighter, wishing for one of those hugs with all of my might- until I start to pray out my wishes, fears, temptations and lost battles.

Sometimes I talk to you through my prayers.  Sometimes I talk to my grandmother.  Sometimes I just lay here, asking God a million-and-one questions, all-the-while apologizing repeatedly for being so discontent with not knowing any of the answers.

I know several people in my life who would tell me this is a control problem that I have.

I know that they are all right.

Where do control problems come from? Where do they go?

How can I stop my head from spinning around and around like a merry-go-round?

I just want to get out of the psycho circus for awhile.  So I lay my head down on my pillow and I let my tired eyes drift off into a white sort of slumber.

Tomorrow brings new possibilities of joy.  Tonight I dream of my favorite embraces.

"God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts." -Sylvia Plath.

Finished Business

Music is powerful, yeah?

I tend to be most impacted by music and people.  Whenever I meet especially life-altering people, I have a tendency to immortalize them forever in my conscious and in my heart by creating mixed tapes or playlists that breathe their lives into music form.

I have a ridiculous history of doing this with past loves.

It's a very intimate experience, I think, creating a mix for someone who means a lot to you.  The intimacy which goes into hand-picking a selection of songs tied to memories with this person, or tied inexplicably to this person's character, is very powerful.  I feel that it creates a lot of vulnerability. 

Somehow, with all of these mixes that I've made over the years for a myriad of different reasons, I found that I've been able to capture the essence of these humans strikingly well, in my opinion.

It's similar to treating people like movies.  If this person was a movie, what would the soundtrack to their life be, if I was the one directing their movie?

Even though the circumstances surrounding your relationship with and to each other may change dramatically, and even though the pedestals you placed them ever-so-carefully upon may crumble for whatever reason, these people are still alive to you exactly as they were in the moment you made that playlist, every single time you listen.

That is magical.

That is powerful.

Sometimes, that can be dangerous as well as painful.

I experienced some of that spark and burn this morning on my way to work.  Sometimes when this happens, you just have to write a letter. Sometimes that letter can feel like closure- and at other times, that letter can just simply say "I'm sorry."

This is my letter today.  no background on the where or the why- I'm choosing to share this personal letter publicly, and therefore I don't feel the need to explain myself.

Your understanding is deeply appreciated.

I still run to you in my dreams.

I still run to you even when I'm not dreaming.

Despite the large amount of days that have passed since those moments we shared, I still remember how everything felt like magic with you.

With the numerous days, a tidal wave of change has brought closure to what happened, and new feelings for something and someone else, along with a newfound respect and appreciation for what took place between us, and the way it's been finished, completed- neatly folded into a box and delicately placed somewhere in the attic of our souls. It's over.  No hard feelings.  No more push and pull.

Even still, sometimes.... Sometimes, I escape to the quiet solitude of my car, and I hit the "play" button on a playlist of songs that represent so many experiences you and I shared. I sink below the surface, lost in the ocean of my memories with you, and I find myself wishing somehow that you and I... Whatever we were, whatever we had.... I wish it still had a pulse.

But that's wrong. And I know it's wrong.  And I'm sorry.

I've been a little fragile lately- if I may take the time to explain myself.

Full of emotion at the revelation of deep, unforeseen feeling towards something else, something beautiful and good....  Something much, much better than you and I.

And also, I am full of shame.

Because you are a human being. I am a human being. And I cannot keep trying to control the way I feel toward you.  I definitely cannot keep trying to control the way you feel toward me. I'm sorry that I ever thought I could try.

Not to mention I know full well that it is certainly and finally over.  Which, if I can be totally honest, is a good thing. It wasn't healthy.  It may have been organic, but it wasn't actually healthy.  We learned.  We grew.  God knows we shouted- I shouted.

And then we tore.  We ripped.  It came down in glittering shambles around us- and that was it.

But the vulnerability was real, and it was raw, and I cannot thank you enough for that.

You have no earthly idea what that meant to me- how it changed me.

How I'm still recovering and adapting. 

How this heart has been disfiguring and untangling itself from you, and how even though sometimes the reality of you and I never moving forward still makes me catch my breath and falter ever-so-slightly, I wake up each day thankful for the fact that we never will move forward.

I wake up thankful for the whole experience.

Thankful for your respect, though I'm not sure I deserve it.

Thankful for the faith you've always had in me.

Thankful for the openness of mind and heart you've always gifted to me.

Thankful for your sympathy, your sliding, your hugs, your hand and how it rested on my knee in a quiet moment of encouragement, your godforsaken pride and your damnable, unforgettable confidence.

Also, the walls you let down around me.  I feel so honored by that.

Above all, I'm thankful for your silence, because that was the most gentle method for leading me into the truth that you could have ever used- even though I hated it at the time.

So maybe I'll start returning the respect and the faith.

Maybe I'll stop listening to those songs for awhile.

I used to think, many months ago, that you and I would always be unfinished business.

That's not true.  The books have been settled, the transactions complete- the business is finished.

Thank God for that, right?

If I could leave a few words to you to guide you forward as lights along the way, I would leave these words, because they represent exactly what it is you taught to me- and I'd like to think I did somewhat of the same for you.

I'm not saying that we were soul mates- mostly because I can't honestly say that without bursting out into a loud, clap of laughter. Let's get real, here. But these words about soul mates smack me in the face everytime I read them, because I just picture your face... And I'm thankful for that, too.

"People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.  A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a true soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.  A soul mate's purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in... and make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life."
-Elizabeth Gilbert

Thanks for filling that role for awhile, whatever the title is.

See you around sometime, maybe.

Breath.

Sometimes it just feels like you can't even breathe.

Sometimes you find yourself sitting in your underwear on your bed, and you've pushed all the covers off.

The fan is blowing cool air toward you and your legs have goosebumps but you're too stubborn to get up and pull the blankets back on top of the mattress.

So you just lay there. Arms folded underneath your head, legs tucked as close to the center of your body as possible.  You stare at the grey-blue wall. And even though your chest is rising and falling with the miracle of breath, and with every inhale and exhale your heart beats steadily onward- all you can think to your quiet, fragile self is, "I can't even breathe."

Home alone this week.

I'm finding out I'm much worse at being alone than I thought I was.  I don't like being in this large, empty house by myself. All my childhood and early pre-adolescent daydreams of "FINALLY BEING ALONE" have died.

I don't look forward to the opportunity to have the house to myself.  I wish I could fill it right now with the laughter of the people I love.  I wish I could curl up next to _____ and fall asleep safe.

It's 10:19pm and I'm exhausted.  I wanted to be asleep by now.  I was almost asleep when I was downstairs on the couch, watching the latter half of Freedom Writers on TV, after spending a good amount of time cleaning the kitchen, watering the plants, and taking the garbage out.  (Who says the Little Woman can't take care of herself?)

I thought to myself, "Sweet peaches, it's only 9:30.  If I go to bed now, I can sleep for almost 9 hours before I have to wake up!"

As soon as I laid down in my big, empty white bed, I knew I had to write.

I went back and forth.  "Sleep.  Sleep is more important.  You can write tomorrow."

"I've been in a funk for days.  If I don't write, sleep won't matter.  I'll still be forlorn tomorrow."

"Why don't you let tomorrow handle tomorrow and just go to bed?"

"I can't.  I owe it to the art.  I have to write.  I have to."

So of course I turned over and pulled my laptop into my lap and now here I am.

Forlorn, quiet, alone and exhausted.

With that Royals song playing on repeat in my head, "We will never be royals, it don't run in our blood..."*

Sometimes it seems silly, but with all that's going on in the world, all I can really wrap my head around are the tiny, insignificant things.

The way I get really pensive when I'm tired.

The smell plants give off when hose water showers their petals and leaves.

The way Ryan Gosling looks in a vintage silk suit.

The word "shishigashira" to describe a Japanese maple tree.

The unfathomable depth and unpredictability of the wantonness of the human heart.

Why on earth Chuck Palahniuk thinks writing a sequel to Fight Club will be a good idea.

How it is that they make Frosty's look so damn good on Wendy's TV ads.

How much I would rather be camping than lying in my own bed right now.

How certain people in your life make it easier to breathe again, and how you wish you could just be sitting with them over coffee, or tucked inside their car, both sets of feet on the dashboard, or mindlessly perusing the shelves of the local bookstores, talking with them and being silent with them and sharing in multiple heartaches just by allowing yourself to be fragile with them, because they've allowed themselves to be fragile with you.

What are goosebumps?

Why and how and for what purpose it is that sometimes you can literally feel someone hugging you, even though they've been miles and miles away for a long time.

How many more days until I can see you again?

"We don't care, we're not caught up in your love affair."*

Sometimes I really hate how much better I am at writing than speaking my words in communication with other people.

10:44pm.  My eyes are sore.

I think knowing I'm the only living thing in this house gives me insomnia.

Where's that mysterious memory-mind-hug phenomenon when you need it?

"It's all just a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near-escapes. So I take pleasure in the details.  You know.  A quarter pounder with cheese, those are good.  The sky about ten minutes before it starts to rain, the moment where your laughter becomes a cackle... And I, I sit back and I smoke my Camel Straights, and I ride my own melt." **

Where are my favorite pair of eyes?

10:56 PM.










*Royals- Lorde
** Reality Bites