Quarter Moon

She blamed it on the moon cycle: Its feverish beam uniting melancholy with high voltage twitching, a confusing combination.

She wanted to howl at the moon: a loud organic moan from the deep pit of her despair, bare chested atop a mountain peak but all while hiding under a heavy blanket eating comfort food.

Staring severely into the sky, beyond the stars and past her better judgment, she blamed it on the moon cycle.

Infinity And Beyond

Her thoughts went dark: to a place that bared no window. There was no air to provide her food for thought: she was settled. Into a dust that had fought a storm, a dust that rested on a ground of lost adventures. She was done. She was defeated. Arms splayed for forsakenness, she had to remind herself of her needing: who would call her name as she turned to sand? Who would cup her into a vase and carry her across the desert to a cool salvation? Who would hold her, until her true end?

Only time.

Only time could hold her.

Just Two



Yesterday I didn’t see a two year old; I saw a reflection of me on my worst day. I saw exhaustion, frustration and emotional anxiety brewing a tantrum.

Yesterday I saw my failures trying to trample my triumphs.

Yesterday I saw a dark cloud and it walked around my better judgment leaving post-it notes of what if, why not, should have, could have and didn’t. It pushed buttons and left unadvisable suggestions.

Yesterday I measured motherhood by progress, not patience.

Yesterday I thought I saw myself as good a Mother as I am ever going to be and the vision was disappointing.

Yesterday I cried.

Today I saw him for what he is; past the milestones been and to be, past the communications via tears and/or cuddles, past the hopes I have for him and the mistakes I’ve probably already made and may make.

Today I saw his cheeks, white and fluffy, feeling their bounce with my gaze. I saw his clear blue eyes appear confused, glazed and tired even, because he should be tired. All he does is run, jump and destroy. That’s got to be tiring.

Today I saw his pouty pink lips, a gift from his father, pursed together to say a word or sentence that he can’t quite get out just yet.

Today I saw his little fingers tapping at the car window as he counted trees, starting from four and counting up in three’s, then two’s and then backwards; basically not really counting at all. My initial response was to feel discouraged as I know he can count perfectly well from one to ten, instead I saw his little mind bouncing as quick as the white lines disappeared under our moving car.

Today I saw him smile, not at me, (god forbid) but just at whatever, whatever it was that flickered past his thoughts and made him smile.

Today I saw my two-year-old son for the age that he is, two. A pleasant reminder that allowed me to catch my breath, slow my roll and give the finger to yesterday.

Today I smiled.

For better or for worse

My better self smells like aftershave, the expensive type from the store with symbols as letters.

My better self talks with vindication and nods politely when it hears mistruths.

My better self drinks red, when it wants to drink black because it’s had a red day.

My better self sways a tired child to sleep, a moment to rest its own eyes.

My better self says yes when it feels like saying no.

My better self rests my head to sleep when I cry into its chest, that I have not done my best.

My husband.

Those days

Her limbs refused to hold her; they just hung around her body feeling sorry for themselves. Listless she slumbered on the closest piece of furniture that would keep her from the floor; too close to the ground and she feared she might melt into it and become the underlay of other peoples paths. Her face palmed into the crook of her shoulder as she slouched upon the kitchen counter. Today she would just be a body, a shell.

Nudge her and she will fall.

Let her sleep a while.