I’m a fire sign, a Leo, a lioness: Fierce, wild, nocturnal and willing to fight to the death to protect them. This they know of their mother. But what about before I was their mother? Do they ever wonder who I used to be? Continue reading
What if Harvey Weinstein was just a regular guy holding interviews for an accounting job. A woman shows up at his office as planned and after a short while he says, “We’re going to move this meeting to my hotel room, ok?” Continue reading
I’ve invested a lot of time and energy in the thinking poorly of you, banishing you from my brain and committing you to the darkest and most tortured part of me. But have thence, without want nor care, come to peace with the all of you. I choose instead to dangle endlessly spellbound, forever smitten by your lullaby voice, and mesmerized by the magical conjuring of you.
Perhaps when love’s garish, blinding fire settles itself down from a feverish, blistering burn, to a slow, autumn-orange and berry-blue flame, enchanting even the fancy fae of twilight herself, we are also gifted sight of the death-gray soot now layered and exposed: the settling into complacency, the acceptance of the mediocre and the realization remaining true to ourselves isn’t worth the fight.
Truth told, it wasn’t just you that stopped the dance, I untied my laces and hung my pink slippers up long ago. And yet, we stayed, tethered to one another, bound by habit, paralyzed by the comfort in routine, and tied to fear of the unknown. Was it just a marathon we were trying to win, box stepping our way through life and love to one stale, repetition of the same tired song?
Until finally, the fear of the unknown transforms into the promise of possibilities. Until finally, we pick up the broken stick beside us and dare stir the embers, awaken the infinite in the stirring and beg rise of the oxygen-starved ash, chasing the sparks like fireflies in the night. We run with no thought to destination, no fear of wrong paths taken or finding ourselves lost; we chase the fire’s light hoping to find where it calls home once it fades from our eyes.
Once lost in this drunken, romantic notion of awareness, of purpose and wonder of self, we can rejoice in the splendor of discovery, awaken in the most glorious of dreams and take flight to the heavens, needing nothing pain and suffering have to offer, their invitations no longer irresistible. Our indiscretion and judgment seem childish at best, once viewed from above the pedestal of triviality, now, shamefully, so well-worn and comfortable.
We did love. We did in-love hard, fast and ferocious, and that is the fire I choose to warm my heart with when remembering your touch, your passion and your uncanny ability to make me laugh when I wanted nothing more than to crawl inside myself to lick my wounds healed. This is how I choose to remember the all of you.
And will you remember the all of me, the essence, the vast and wild-wilderness of me, the one place you chose to get hopelessly and forever tucked away from the world? The Bonnie-blue of these Scottish eyes flashing to beckon you, the wispy-fine locks of my hair, rebelliously escaping their beaded-barrette prison, hoping to find capture by your weathered hands to be placed gently behind my ear?
Let us remember the best of ourselves, the best of each other, and regard both with a fondness and familiarity known only by lovers who loved well. Souls once in love, now beheld and cherished dear as poetic fragrance, lingering, still, from tumbles through moments and memories of the willowy wildflowers we planted so many years ago.
Remember me well, remember me fair, remember me Bonnie-blue.
It was a comet dust ride—unworldly and cosmic, fast and furious—and, by dawn’s early light, just a cherished memory.
“Desperate to escape abusive parents and chaotic households, it didn’t take my best friend Debbie long to convince me Notre Dame Academy for Girls was the answer and refuge we’d been praying for. Continue reading
Thrilled beyond measure to be Featured in the Health and Science section on The Washington Post. It’s posted in their digital media and in print.
Get your biscuits in the oven
And your buns in the bed
Forget about that birth control
It’s what the good book says
Fetch my beaded rosary from my wooden dresser drawer
I think the good Lord’s calling me home, an angel’s at my door
She really is quite lovely, and she stands in God’s sweet Grace
My heart feels she’s familiar but I can’t make out her face Continue reading
Would those very pants you are wearing ever seem at home tossed across the bottom of my queen-sized bed? I see myself folding them, yet again, and hanging them up for you. I visualize the laundry basket with our clothes already intertwined within each other’s arms and legs and seemingly happy. Would we be seemingly happy intertwined?