I am, in a spurt of sentimentality, glancing through my writtenz. There are things, precious things, napkins with a lip-sticked sentence, a pink paper that tells Colin how I met his father (all the Sons have the story of Daddy, somewhere) a doily, (think my Grandmother) 95 in February next!! You go girl, Whoop, Whoop!! I love you.
Again, it switches up in the home. My peaceful, loving, easy feeling..(fire included) in the quiet specialness that has most alwaze covered me in the mornings waz shattered in an instant. As I slow my heartbeats down, after engaging in a battle with my testosterone filled teen and his couple years older brother. It becomes so brutal, the words they choose to use to this Mama. I’ve come through ripped up, broken, asphalt rashes of fuckedness and still, I am capable. Somehow, I was also born into this World to be just that, their Mama. And, it seems, Venus and Mars in a classic familial struggle)) See, I better now. I think the dogs laying here, snoring in their peacefullnes, did it for me.
It is now close to 9. I am recreating what I had earlier, in order to pound this out because I am exhausted although pleasantly so).
I have decided to combine my forums. Or something. Gheesh, if everything goes digital, whatthefuckever will I do???? My books.
I have thoughts of my precious’s getting….getting…halt. The pieces of me that someday will all make sense need to come together.
Just as I do.
It will be a reawakening or a reconcilliation or a rebellion, or, or, or!!!??? I have no idea how this all will go but go I must. Open the spiderwebbed shitz that must see a little lite then…poof be gone. In some sort of colored bubble, I suppose.
I have placed most of my words in a trunk.
Much has been lost, like a massive amount of pictures from my Sons (all) early days (baby books I did with cherished love, journals, paper pics, oh my, heart breaking for this woman)
Much has been stored in the trunks of my mind and a gentle rewind I must do to justify the scars.
For mySelf. For my Sons. For Others. For whomever came through it crying, but fighting the good fight.
I made it to: “Fuck it, I’m Fifty” oh I sneeze…bless me.
***Pleaziee, I likey the z’z and use them every chance I get. Peace***