30 October 2007
Do You Know Me?
Do you know me? I believe that you think you do.
I just pulled out in front of you and you swerved around me; I bet I know what you were thinking. You didn't look over at me, but just the way you were gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead--been there. I swear to the Lord above I checked five times, but I guess I couldn't see you through the tears I was crying. You're not the only one that cries, lady.
Do you know me? Because you just walked by me like maybe you couldn't see me, pushing this shopping cart, asking for pop cans. I don't know how I got here, either, lady.
Can you hear me? Because I've asked you the same question about one hundred times today, mom, and most of the time, it's gone unanswered, other times, your answer, "What"? stings. It doesn't sound like the "I love you" that I usually get.
Did I offend you? Because when I came toward you and your daughter, holding out my hands, the look of terror on your face shocked me. I know I appeared tipsy, but actually, as my friend explained, just disabled. I know my words sounded frightening while calculating the pace I was coming at you, but, she was so cute, your baby. You're lucky, lady. I won't be having any babies of my own.
Did we fail you? Today you looked at us with disgust when you pinched your thighs. We've upheld you through a lot, you know. What does a little jiggle matter when we still work, hard, each day for you. And those stretch marks? Remember what your o.b. told you? How each day he saw women that would kill to be able to be pregnant and get those things? Remember that?
Dear God, please forgive me.
I just pulled out in front of you and you swerved around me; I bet I know what you were thinking. You didn't look over at me, but just the way you were gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead--been there. I swear to the Lord above I checked five times, but I guess I couldn't see you through the tears I was crying. You're not the only one that cries, lady.
Do you know me? Because you just walked by me like maybe you couldn't see me, pushing this shopping cart, asking for pop cans. I don't know how I got here, either, lady.
Can you hear me? Because I've asked you the same question about one hundred times today, mom, and most of the time, it's gone unanswered, other times, your answer, "What"? stings. It doesn't sound like the "I love you" that I usually get.
Did I offend you? Because when I came toward you and your daughter, holding out my hands, the look of terror on your face shocked me. I know I appeared tipsy, but actually, as my friend explained, just disabled. I know my words sounded frightening while calculating the pace I was coming at you, but, she was so cute, your baby. You're lucky, lady. I won't be having any babies of my own.
Did we fail you? Today you looked at us with disgust when you pinched your thighs. We've upheld you through a lot, you know. What does a little jiggle matter when we still work, hard, each day for you. And those stretch marks? Remember what your o.b. told you? How each day he saw women that would kill to be able to be pregnant and get those things? Remember that?
Dear God, please forgive me.
27 October 2007
The View From Where He Lays
This is the view from where he lays now, Simba. He who once laid within the confines of my home for fourteen years.
I miss him still so much sometimes it's consuming.
"Just a dog", some might say, but honestly, so much more than that.
The thing is, the sirens. They startle me now. Big A and I look at one another when we hear one and let the pain go unspoken, each of us retreating to our corners to cry. For once upon a time, for many, many years, if we heard Simba howl, we knew that a siren would follow within a minute. We have no warnings now, just the loud, clamoring sound, resonating, reminding: He is gone, he is gone, he is gone.
I want him back. I want to, just one more time, give him a belly rub. To massage behind his ears and count to ten, him never making it to eight before he dropped on the ground, the sensation so wonderful to him.
I want him back. Just one more time, to try to get him to shake. One time, in fourteen years, he mastered that. I know it was just a fluke; he wasn't smart, remember? But still, just one more time to try and then relent and give him a treat anyway.
I can't speak of him yet, without saying, "I can't talk about this" and sobbing. I sit here typing, uncontrollably crying--taking a break every other word to remind myself to breathe, I miss him that much.
I want to think that he sees that view from where his body now rests, and yet I want to think that he sees us and knows how much we want him back, how he still lives within me, how sometimes, I'm still calling his name, then remembering that he is gone, I grasp my chest to force the air back in. I want him to know that the ache from his loss renders me nearly breathless sometimes; I loved him that much. I want him to know that I remember.
Simba: God, I miss you, and the view from where you lay is where my part of me will reside always.
23 October 2007
Dear Manny Ramirez
Dear Manny Ramirez,
Tomorrow is busy, busy, busy for me since my mom and sister are going to be in town for the day, so I need to write you this letter now, before the opening game of the World Series.
Please quit being an asshole.
You've single-handedly ruined any joy that I had rooting for the Red Sox. After the Tigers, they were my team. I relished in them beating up on the Yankees and whoever else they were playing, but this last series, thanks to your theatrics and posturing (fine, and the facts that Grady Sizemore is, well, so freaking hot, and my penchant for the underdogs), I was cheering whole-heartedly for the Indians.
I'm still so annoyed with you that I don't really know who I'm cheering for tomorrow. Let's just say I'm leaning towards the Sox because: A.) A bunch of girls I know here in Blogsphere still love the Sox and B.) Curt Schilling.
Obviously, you're talented. Not many yahoo's make the starting line-up for World Series teams. Obviously, you've hit a home run or two in your day, so you don't need to stand at the plate and watch it go out, arms in the air like you've just risen the dead. Put your freaking head down and run, Manny. Show a little class, a little grace, a little (gasp) respect for your opponents. (You know you should have at least been on second with that little ball-off-the-yellow-line-of-the-wall hit)
Also, making a routine fly-ball catch isn't really worthy of theatrics. You're paid like a gazillion dollars to do so, so just do it, and maybe tap your ball-cap or something small. No hand motions or arm-pumps are necessary.
You're a super-talent on a team of your peers, and I don't see them running around acting like idiots every time they hit or field the ball. I just want to sit back and root for the Sox and the American League and feel good about it again, so please, please, quit wrecking it for me.
Thanks,
Jenn
Tomorrow is busy, busy, busy for me since my mom and sister are going to be in town for the day, so I need to write you this letter now, before the opening game of the World Series.
Please quit being an asshole.
You've single-handedly ruined any joy that I had rooting for the Red Sox. After the Tigers, they were my team. I relished in them beating up on the Yankees and whoever else they were playing, but this last series, thanks to your theatrics and posturing (fine, and the facts that Grady Sizemore is, well, so freaking hot, and my penchant for the underdogs), I was cheering whole-heartedly for the Indians.
I'm still so annoyed with you that I don't really know who I'm cheering for tomorrow. Let's just say I'm leaning towards the Sox because: A.) A bunch of girls I know here in Blogsphere still love the Sox and B.) Curt Schilling.
Obviously, you're talented. Not many yahoo's make the starting line-up for World Series teams. Obviously, you've hit a home run or two in your day, so you don't need to stand at the plate and watch it go out, arms in the air like you've just risen the dead. Put your freaking head down and run, Manny. Show a little class, a little grace, a little (gasp) respect for your opponents. (You know you should have at least been on second with that little ball-off-the-yellow-line-of-the-wall hit)
Also, making a routine fly-ball catch isn't really worthy of theatrics. You're paid like a gazillion dollars to do so, so just do it, and maybe tap your ball-cap or something small. No hand motions or arm-pumps are necessary.
You're a super-talent on a team of your peers, and I don't see them running around acting like idiots every time they hit or field the ball. I just want to sit back and root for the Sox and the American League and feel good about it again, so please, please, quit wrecking it for me.
Thanks,
Jenn
22 October 2007
Lottery Winnings & The Real Riches
I've been busy filling out all of the paperwork to collect my winnings from the Irish National Lottery. Thank God all of my years of praying came through and I finally got that windfall that I've been hoping for. Life will be so much easier now. All I have to do is use the equity on my house to send in a fee to get the rest of my check, but it'll be a small price pay when I have my money in hand.
So, my computer is on the blink, and by blink, I mean "nearing eternal sleep". I keep trying to convince it to stay awhile longer, but most of the time it's non-respondent. So please don't view my lack of comments to you as non-interest; quite the opposite--but when it takes 3 minutes to load the comment page....well, you know. As soon as I get my check from INL, I'm going to purchase a brand spanking new super-computer, and donate to all of your pay-pal links on your pages, OK? (And you, briar's mom? I'm your publisher).
*****
This weekend while I was at my parent's home, Big A came running up the stairs to tell me that she'd taught herself a tune on the piano. "Great, good for you", I said as I continued washing my face and making sure Little A didn't fall off of the stool she was on while brushing her "teef".
Big A scurried out of the bathroom to go and tell her aunt B the same news. "Good for you" she said while she continued to talk to/manage our other two nieces and nephews, while half listening to Big A, who was still talking about how she taught herself "Axel F". (Yes, that "Axel F", from Beverly Hills Cop)
I almost vomited right there, reality smacking me in the face and pinning me up against the wall so that I had nowhere else to go.
That's what I do with Big A. She's easy to mollify, to appease, to pay half-attention to while I'm dealing with the other things at hand that seem so much more important, typically Little A. Because she acts like such an adult, I've let her become more of one than she should be, because when I don't give her the attention that she should have, she's happy to go and read a book or draw, and so I let her.
I went to listen to her rendition of "Axel F", patting her back and actually giving every ounce of myself to her; to that moment. I know that it cannot be like that, each minute of each day, but I've made a resolution to at least give her some undivided time each day, because I don't do that now. I'm not sure I even believe that "undivided" is real any longer, but I'm bringing it back.
She was my baby once. She was the first to break my heart with her sighs as she laid upon my chest. She taught me the first that I knew of the deepest kind of love. I owe her much more than I've given.
I brought back all of the piano books that I used as a kid, and I'm hoping to somehow get the piano from my parent's home into my home..."Axel F" is just the beginning of really bad songs that I know---my first mastering on the piano was "Making Love Out of Nothing At All".
And the neighbors thought that they hated my 80's music blaring....
I'm hoping this posts when I hit publish and doesn't crash. If it does, so good to be back, and I will remember you all when I'm collecting my funds. Go ahead and send me your mortgage statements, I'll get right on those.
So, my computer is on the blink, and by blink, I mean "nearing eternal sleep". I keep trying to convince it to stay awhile longer, but most of the time it's non-respondent. So please don't view my lack of comments to you as non-interest; quite the opposite--but when it takes 3 minutes to load the comment page....well, you know. As soon as I get my check from INL, I'm going to purchase a brand spanking new super-computer, and donate to all of your pay-pal links on your pages, OK? (And you, briar's mom? I'm your publisher).
*****
This weekend while I was at my parent's home, Big A came running up the stairs to tell me that she'd taught herself a tune on the piano. "Great, good for you", I said as I continued washing my face and making sure Little A didn't fall off of the stool she was on while brushing her "teef".
Big A scurried out of the bathroom to go and tell her aunt B the same news. "Good for you" she said while she continued to talk to/manage our other two nieces and nephews, while half listening to Big A, who was still talking about how she taught herself "Axel F". (Yes, that "Axel F", from Beverly Hills Cop)
I almost vomited right there, reality smacking me in the face and pinning me up against the wall so that I had nowhere else to go.
That's what I do with Big A. She's easy to mollify, to appease, to pay half-attention to while I'm dealing with the other things at hand that seem so much more important, typically Little A. Because she acts like such an adult, I've let her become more of one than she should be, because when I don't give her the attention that she should have, she's happy to go and read a book or draw, and so I let her.
I went to listen to her rendition of "Axel F", patting her back and actually giving every ounce of myself to her; to that moment. I know that it cannot be like that, each minute of each day, but I've made a resolution to at least give her some undivided time each day, because I don't do that now. I'm not sure I even believe that "undivided" is real any longer, but I'm bringing it back.
She was my baby once. She was the first to break my heart with her sighs as she laid upon my chest. She taught me the first that I knew of the deepest kind of love. I owe her much more than I've given.
I brought back all of the piano books that I used as a kid, and I'm hoping to somehow get the piano from my parent's home into my home..."Axel F" is just the beginning of really bad songs that I know---my first mastering on the piano was "Making Love Out of Nothing At All".
And the neighbors thought that they hated my 80's music blaring....
I'm hoping this posts when I hit publish and doesn't crash. If it does, so good to be back, and I will remember you all when I'm collecting my funds. Go ahead and send me your mortgage statements, I'll get right on those.
15 October 2007
Ann Arbor, Revisited
Today I was back in the town that I called home during college. Fall is nostalgia for me, what can I say? I think it's something in the leaves, the way the air feels when it's at the perfect temperature for jeans and a sweatshirt, the remembrance of new lunch boxes and squeaky shoes that came with September.
I reminisced about the differences of what Ann Arbor meant to me today, versus what it meant to me a million years ago. Instead of a backpack slung over one shoulder, it was a diaper bag. Instead of the butterflies in my belly coming from cute football players with great eyes, or professors that had a sixth sense of who did and didn't read the assigned 70 chapters and proceeded to call on those that didn't, the butterflies today were swirling about, nervous over what one more physician was going to say about Little A.
I wasn't looking for a spot to tie up my bike, but rather a spot to park my car in the giganto-plex parking structure, I wasn't fishing for the notes that I took the last time I was in class, but rather the medical reports and insurance information and copies of this and that and things I found on the internet. (Damn you, internets).
We found our way, Little A and I. We even got there on time, no grace period needed. We sat through the endless medical history questions from the nurse, knowing I'd get to repeat them all to the doctor again in twenty minutes. "Did you not get the records that were sent"? I always ask this question, just for fun. FYI: typically, the response is a blank stare, an occasional fumble of a chart. No, they've never reviewed jack prior to walking into the room, similar to my test-taking techniques of yesteryear.
Today our physician presented a choice to me: Little A could have surgery soon, or we could wait one more year. There is a 65% chance that she could grow correctly and that in that time, with her medication, heal herself, to speak. Or I could opt to heal her medically, sooner rather than later.
After her exam, during which she screamed bloody murder and "No" while they were prodding her, I asked about ten questions, and ran my fingers through my hair, tapped my feet, and rubbed my hands along my neck. "What would you do"?, I asked. Of course, I knew he would tell me that he couldn't offer that type of advice.
"Maybe this is something to talk over with her Da-" He stopped, mid-word, glancing at the empty ring finger, his eyes then noticing the very blank portions of her records. "It's just us. This is the decision-making team. Scary, huh"? I laughed. "It's OK, we're fine". And for the very first time, I meant those words.
"What do you think, Little A?" I tilted my head to hers. "Ummmm, no." I looked at him and smiled.
"I'm going to wait. I am. I think I'm going to wait and see what happens". I said it more as a question, looking for his affirmation.
"Great, I'll write you a prescription for the next year and you can call if she regresses". He smiled warmly as he shut her folder and asked the nurse to go and get the prescription form.
"You're doing fine, you know", he said as he squeezed my hand before walking out.
And suddenly, one day in Ann Arbor, I learned more about myself than in the culmination of so many others.
And out we walked, bag banging against my shoulder, air smelling like football, sun feeling like school bus rides, life feeling, once again, like a beginning with endless possibilities.
I reminisced about the differences of what Ann Arbor meant to me today, versus what it meant to me a million years ago. Instead of a backpack slung over one shoulder, it was a diaper bag. Instead of the butterflies in my belly coming from cute football players with great eyes, or professors that had a sixth sense of who did and didn't read the assigned 70 chapters and proceeded to call on those that didn't, the butterflies today were swirling about, nervous over what one more physician was going to say about Little A.
I wasn't looking for a spot to tie up my bike, but rather a spot to park my car in the giganto-plex parking structure, I wasn't fishing for the notes that I took the last time I was in class, but rather the medical reports and insurance information and copies of this and that and things I found on the internet. (Damn you, internets).
We found our way, Little A and I. We even got there on time, no grace period needed. We sat through the endless medical history questions from the nurse, knowing I'd get to repeat them all to the doctor again in twenty minutes. "Did you not get the records that were sent"? I always ask this question, just for fun. FYI: typically, the response is a blank stare, an occasional fumble of a chart. No, they've never reviewed jack prior to walking into the room, similar to my test-taking techniques of yesteryear.
Today our physician presented a choice to me: Little A could have surgery soon, or we could wait one more year. There is a 65% chance that she could grow correctly and that in that time, with her medication, heal herself, to speak. Or I could opt to heal her medically, sooner rather than later.
After her exam, during which she screamed bloody murder and "No" while they were prodding her, I asked about ten questions, and ran my fingers through my hair, tapped my feet, and rubbed my hands along my neck. "What would you do"?, I asked. Of course, I knew he would tell me that he couldn't offer that type of advice.
"Maybe this is something to talk over with her Da-" He stopped, mid-word, glancing at the empty ring finger, his eyes then noticing the very blank portions of her records. "It's just us. This is the decision-making team. Scary, huh"? I laughed. "It's OK, we're fine". And for the very first time, I meant those words.
"What do you think, Little A?" I tilted my head to hers. "Ummmm, no." I looked at him and smiled.
"I'm going to wait. I am. I think I'm going to wait and see what happens". I said it more as a question, looking for his affirmation.
"Great, I'll write you a prescription for the next year and you can call if she regresses". He smiled warmly as he shut her folder and asked the nurse to go and get the prescription form.
"You're doing fine, you know", he said as he squeezed my hand before walking out.
And suddenly, one day in Ann Arbor, I learned more about myself than in the culmination of so many others.
And out we walked, bag banging against my shoulder, air smelling like football, sun feeling like school bus rides, life feeling, once again, like a beginning with endless possibilities.
12 October 2007
What I Cannot Give Her
Each day I feed her and bathe her and laugh with her.
I take her for walks, read to her, hug her and sing to her.
I'm not sure how many times I tell her that I love her, but it's numerous. Some might think that saying "I love you" over and over makes the words lose meaning, but each time I say them to her, part of my heart aches from what I feel when I'm speaking.
On a daily basis, I give her vitamins and her medications, and a roof over her head, a warm room with "i carry your heart with me" painted on the wall and homemade afghans on the bed to sleep in.
Lately, though, I've found myself trying to give her things that I think she's going to need for the long haul, because with the visions of fairy tales stripped from my head, I'm starting to realize what a long haul it is going to be.
I'm slower to kiss her "owwies". "There's no crying in baseball", I say to her, then kiss her after she insists on it repeatedly. She still thinks I'm magic that way. I feel a liar to let her believe these things.
I feel like somehow I need to instill other things in her; not "girlie" things, not comforting things, not hugs and coddling, but tools that are going to make her capable and strong and un-needy.
I want to make her a fighter. I want to make her the type of person that gets knocked on their ass and instead of crying, gets back up and goes at it again, over and over.
I want to make her realize the value of herself, of what she has within her, of what she can have within her.
I want to make her a girl that is secure enough within her being to not look for a missing man in all of the men that she meets.
I want to make her a girl that loves me enough not to hate me for what I cannot give her.
I want to give her so many things, so many things, and I'm afraid that no matter how much I do give her, it will not ever be enough to fill the void that I'm worried is already growing within her, the ache that she can't quite place her finger on.
I want to take that heart of hers and keep it wild and free and open, and at the same time, I want to cage it to keep it from the wounds that are undoubtedly going to leave it scarred and tattered.
And I have absolutely no idea how to do this, how to be this person, and it's scaring me in ways that I don't know how to put into words. It has me staring at the ceiling in the dead of the night and wondering if I did right by her when I thought that I could be enough of a person to take care of her and provide her with what she needs.
"I have no idea what I'm doing", I find myself saying this over and over lately and it's only a matter of time before she recognizes that, before the person that she sees when she looks at me and the person that I see in the mirror before me are the same.
And there are so many things that I want to give her before that day.
I take her for walks, read to her, hug her and sing to her.
I'm not sure how many times I tell her that I love her, but it's numerous. Some might think that saying "I love you" over and over makes the words lose meaning, but each time I say them to her, part of my heart aches from what I feel when I'm speaking.
On a daily basis, I give her vitamins and her medications, and a roof over her head, a warm room with "i carry your heart with me" painted on the wall and homemade afghans on the bed to sleep in.
Lately, though, I've found myself trying to give her things that I think she's going to need for the long haul, because with the visions of fairy tales stripped from my head, I'm starting to realize what a long haul it is going to be.
I'm slower to kiss her "owwies". "There's no crying in baseball", I say to her, then kiss her after she insists on it repeatedly. She still thinks I'm magic that way. I feel a liar to let her believe these things.
I feel like somehow I need to instill other things in her; not "girlie" things, not comforting things, not hugs and coddling, but tools that are going to make her capable and strong and un-needy.
I want to make her a fighter. I want to make her the type of person that gets knocked on their ass and instead of crying, gets back up and goes at it again, over and over.
I want to make her realize the value of herself, of what she has within her, of what she can have within her.
I want to make her a girl that is secure enough within her being to not look for a missing man in all of the men that she meets.
I want to make her a girl that loves me enough not to hate me for what I cannot give her.
I want to give her so many things, so many things, and I'm afraid that no matter how much I do give her, it will not ever be enough to fill the void that I'm worried is already growing within her, the ache that she can't quite place her finger on.
I want to take that heart of hers and keep it wild and free and open, and at the same time, I want to cage it to keep it from the wounds that are undoubtedly going to leave it scarred and tattered.
And I have absolutely no idea how to do this, how to be this person, and it's scaring me in ways that I don't know how to put into words. It has me staring at the ceiling in the dead of the night and wondering if I did right by her when I thought that I could be enough of a person to take care of her and provide her with what she needs.
"I have no idea what I'm doing", I find myself saying this over and over lately and it's only a matter of time before she recognizes that, before the person that she sees when she looks at me and the person that I see in the mirror before me are the same.
And there are so many things that I want to give her before that day.
10 October 2007
Why Mommy Drinks
Location: The kitchen in the castle
Hour: Too damn early
Scene: Servant cooking breakfast, Big A on throne
Servant hands Big A platter, continues cooking reserve food for squirrels living in walls (another post) to gnaw on, gagging on smoke from sausage permeating the air
Big A: Actually, do you have some peppermint?
Servant: Peppermint? Like candy peppermint?
Big A (eyebrows arched, puzzled look on face): You know, pep-per-mint? Like peppermint oil?
Servant: No, fresh out of that.
Big A: Oh, because Mr. N told us that peppermint stimulates the brain.
Servant: Huh.
Big A: Is this soy milk?
Servant: Nope, that is milk straight from a poor, tortured cow on a dairy farm.
Big A: OK. This is good. (Takes another bite of waffle with whipped cream and
syrup on top)
Big A: Wait. Does this have sugar in it?
Servant (already missing the warmth from basking in Big A's compliment, warily):
Why?
Big A: Because Mr. N said that sugar actually de-stimulates the brain.
Servant: So does death.
Big A (nods head, unamused at witty, non-peppermint stimulated comment from servant): So there is sugar in it?
Scene closes, Servant noting to self that she must find subtle way to suggest less emphasis on nutrition, more emphasis on "Algebra for Idiot Servants" cheat-sheets to teacher, Mr. N., at parent-teacher conference. Oh, and buy more beer.
Hour: Too damn early
Scene: Servant cooking breakfast, Big A on throne
Servant hands Big A platter, continues cooking reserve food for squirrels living in walls (another post) to gnaw on, gagging on smoke from sausage permeating the air
Big A: Actually, do you have some peppermint?
Servant: Peppermint? Like candy peppermint?
Big A (eyebrows arched, puzzled look on face): You know, pep-per-mint? Like peppermint oil?
Servant: No, fresh out of that.
Big A: Oh, because Mr. N told us that peppermint stimulates the brain.
Servant: Huh.
Big A: Is this soy milk?
Servant: Nope, that is milk straight from a poor, tortured cow on a dairy farm.
Big A: OK. This is good. (Takes another bite of waffle with whipped cream and
syrup on top)
Big A: Wait. Does this have sugar in it?
Servant (already missing the warmth from basking in Big A's compliment, warily):
Why?
Big A: Because Mr. N said that sugar actually de-stimulates the brain.
Servant: So does death.
Big A (nods head, unamused at witty, non-peppermint stimulated comment from servant): So there is sugar in it?
Scene closes, Servant noting to self that she must find subtle way to suggest less emphasis on nutrition, more emphasis on "Algebra for Idiot Servants" cheat-sheets to teacher, Mr. N., at parent-teacher conference. Oh, and buy more beer.
03 October 2007
Hero
"I'm not a hero. The real heroes are the guys that don't make it--those that are killed in action".
Sgt. First Class Matthew Blaskowski, to his father, Terry, after being wounded in action, May 2005.
Please direct your comments to the post below, Of America & Heroes, which will be given to Matt's parents, Terry & Cheryl Blaskowski.
02 October 2007
Of America & Heroes
This post is being used a card for Matt's parents, Terry & Cheryl Blaskowski.
Your comments will be given to them; please post as such.
01 October 2007
Words; Thousands of Them, Unspoken
I've felt at a loss for words, of late. My mind is trying to wrap itself around many things, but moslty, no matter which turn it's taking, it keeps going back to a picture.
A picture that my sister sent me. A picture that is making me cry at stoplights. A picture of my nephews, in the arms of a soldier that they love the last time he was home.
He comes home again tomorrow. For the last time, he comes home. The route home will be the same, but everything will be different.
The cries at the airport won't be of joy. There won't be running to him, laughter and sunshine painting the way into his open arms.
The same people will be there as the last time he arrived home. They might even wear the same shirts they wore when he stepped off the plane. The shirts they made by hand, the shirts that read, "My Hero". Except instead when those same people greet him, they will be greeting a casket.
So this week, instead of words, I'm going to post you pictures.
Here are the first 1,000 words:
A picture that my sister sent me. A picture that is making me cry at stoplights. A picture of my nephews, in the arms of a soldier that they love the last time he was home.
He comes home again tomorrow. For the last time, he comes home. The route home will be the same, but everything will be different.
The cries at the airport won't be of joy. There won't be running to him, laughter and sunshine painting the way into his open arms.
The same people will be there as the last time he arrived home. They might even wear the same shirts they wore when he stepped off the plane. The shirts they made by hand, the shirts that read, "My Hero". Except instead when those same people greet him, they will be greeting a casket.
So this week, instead of words, I'm going to post you pictures.
Here are the first 1,000 words:
COPYRIGHT:
Although these writings are created by a lowly servant, they still belong to me.
Please, don't take them,
or it's off with your head.
Although these writings are created by a lowly servant, they still belong to me.
Please, don't take them,
or it's off with your head.
Two Years: The Dime StoryThree
Four
Five
Six
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Impostor
And Then, The World Changed Me
Tribute: Of America & Heroes
R: The Final Post
Daddy
Dear Santa
Lines
In Memoriam
The God Factor
Super. Human.
Postcard From the Edge
Help Wanted
There's A Girl
Conversations With Girl
Goodbye Girl
Farkin FunnyPost Secret
Ashley's Closet
Bgrateful
Breed 'Em And Weep
Crib Chronicles
Crow's Nest
Fluttercrafts
In the Trenches
Loralee's
Lawyer Mama
Motherhood Uncensored
Oh, the Joys
One Plus Two
Painted Maypole
Single Mom Seeking
Suburban Bliss
The Bloggess
The Notorious BHJ
The Redneck Mommy
The Wink
Watch Me
Where's My Cape
Cost of the War in Iraq
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