Midnight. Same as eleven. Same as ten. Same as nine eight seven six…
Except she yawned. She blinked a few more times than earlier.
Water the plants. Water the children. Water the trees vegetables flowers weeds…
Except for every other day. Except for the vegetables; they were every day.
Socks, folded. Same as shirts. Same as pants socks pajamas undies…
Except there were no exceptions.
“You should try a vacation,” they said. “I want you to be happy,” he said.
Except for when it affects me, he thought.
Except for when her happiness interferes with everyone else’s.
Once upon a time, there was a poor homemaker who barely had enough time to wash the clothes or dress her children. She never seemed able to sweep her kitchen floor.
One night, as usual, she cleaned enough dishes to make it through the following meal, dressed the children and got them to bed, then started some laundry and fell asleep quite late.
The next morning, she was surprised to find that a small army of ants had cleaned all the crumbs off the floor for her!
If you think she’s going to make them little outfits in gratitude, though, you’re reading the wrong fairy tale.
Go ahead, Dear, cry it out. Spend your tears to pay off sadness. Think through all your sorrows, and tell me every pain.
I’m here, and I’m not leaving. I want to stay with you. I love you more than anything, and I’ll not move till I convince you.
We’ll sit here, by the door. We’re safe; behind it, in the dark. I’ll hold you close as you hold me, till the world is ready for you again.
I just had the brilliant thought that Voldemort should have gone for a much easier target than an eleven-year-old boy; by storming the Ministry of Magic (or wafting through the walls as the spirit he was), stealing a Time Turner, and re-doing that whole getting killed thing.
That wouldn’t be a long enough story for seven books, though.
…Maybe if Rowling described all the times he camped out along the way.
Do you ever stare at the human face, and think that it’s a really strange feature?
Bony bumps protrude beneath squishy orbs that we call distinct and handsome, and fangs spread wide in a gesture we recognize as friendly.
Droopy parts are pasted on the sides and smack dab in the middle -plus dead cells sprout from the top or ears and nose like a wild jungle plant’s fronds…
What gets me, when I’m in this mood, is how the arrangement of these fleshy parts causes us humans to say how attractive an arrangement it all is (or not).
You’re all so weird.
Occasionally a moment freezes in place for me; a sensory object is encapsulated in a transparent memory bubble.
I take it, hold it, and try to preserve it.
At night, if there’s time, I look over my bubbles and move the contents slowly in a swirl ’round the bottom. Looking at it in this light and that, I try to describe it to others and expound on the moment.
I love the feeling of being in healthy shape
almost as much as the
Lush, soft melt of a rich, delicious chocolate dessert
singing along my tongue and nerves
as my brain enters euphoric choruses of rapture.
If you tell your children to get dressed, you will probably find them half- and wholly-naked and playing with toys. If you tell them to pick up the toys, they will realize their brother is downstairs racing his cars on the floors. They will throw their toys over the railing and join him.
Once you threaten to put all playthings underfoot in the garbage, the children will most likely announce they are hungry. Right. Then.
When you suggest breakfast, the only capable one will think it’s a good time to make crêpes.
When he is elbow-deep in flour, egg, and milk; his brother will dump out a board game and the toilet-training boy will get The Look. The children will also need syrup, fruit, sugar, meat, cheese, and utensils set on the table with their plates.
It’s just a good thing they didn’t get dressed yet, or their clothes would have gotten sticky from the crêpes.
Sometimes, I finally convince myself to tackle those chores.
That’s when a large, imposing matron of mood swings leans across, slaps me back down, and says:
We don’t need no motivation.
Hey! Leave those clothes alone!
Life is not scripted.
We forget this, and also that others are ensconced in their own feelings and thoughts -and can’t hear and feel our own. In pain inside, we say something to convey our discomfort. Then, we are surprised at a negative reaction.
So many times two people just need to hear love, but speak hate and receive it back. Feeling dejected, they further barrier themselves against affection till all that’s apparent is their horse-chestnut shell that gives you foot slivers in the grass.