These Days
Oh dear. I feel I'm out of stories to tell, or just in the least bit mood to tell them, even while looking back at the days I looked forward to some two weeks ago, when many significant dates were crammed into the week that was the last, which certainly beats the hell out of christmas. We breezed through thankfully, not with as fabulous memories as was rendered last year, but good enough to keep track of where we are and where we want to be.
10, 15 and 21 -- these are the ages of two of my three girls, and the number of years I am married -- numbers that may potentially define one as a suffering mother (of budding adolescent? impossible teen?), making do with the consolations of midlife companionship. Thank heavens that my present bliss is far from that definition. And for the record, my kids haven't yet succeeded in driving me nuts, that I married quite young, and that I truthfully feel young. Just the other day, to mention, a friend whom I haven't seen in awhile that I randomly saw, told me how my skin had the glow of happiness, and he speaks the truth. I mean, I'm happy, and thrilled that I'm glowing if that were really the case, which I can only attribute to being loved and held tight quite often.
In the blur that is the month of May: I remember Taylor Hicks as the Joe Cocker feeling guy I picked out in the only episode of American Idol I watched this season, now living the American Dream, and good for him because he looks a cross between Jay Leno and George Clooney and sort of unAmerican Idol; my good friend weeping softly during the final mass for her father's passing and I remember myself thinking that I will always have to be around to witness the saddest moments in life of people I care for, which is sad; watching my 15 year-old Antonia preen and love it in her 'Chorus Line' costume, which struck me how beautiful and grown-up she looks;
I relize how I miss my sister Marivic, now visiting, and who quipped 'wow, time flies so fast!', which is my sentiment exactly, as she will be going back home to New York in a few days; to be endlessly growing out short hair that's dreadfully neither here nor there, that did not qualify me to keep the lovely ribbons and flowers Vic brought home for me to tie the long hair with; an unexpected call from a sister in a funk, and thoughts of a problematic brother nobody has spoken to in months ...
Yesterday particularly stood out in a haze of intermittent rainsoaked days, for being very hot, that later gave way to a black and all-the-more-vicious-for-being-Saturday-night thunderstorm that left trees and roadsigns whiplashed, a bummer flashflood on its wake, and daughter Fatima grumbling for not being allowed to go to a gig that she 'really, really, really wanted to watch'; as a treat to myself I wrote me a letter, and I know how to write letters, and I shall receive it sometime in the future, and I suggest you do the same via FutureMe.org, especially if you do not care to lick envelopes and are not in the habit of collecting postage stamps; pastel shades of memory that was a fearless portion of banana split with double dollops of whipped cream I made for myself on Arianna's birthday, which fills my cream quota for the year; my husband who looks at me with love and tenderness that never changed, just like the way he did on the day he married me .... did I say I was out of stories to tell? It's probably more of not being in the mood to tell. If I were, then this just goes on and on and on ...
Filed Under: Randomly
10, 15 and 21 -- these are the ages of two of my three girls, and the number of years I am married -- numbers that may potentially define one as a suffering mother (of budding adolescent? impossible teen?), making do with the consolations of midlife companionship. Thank heavens that my present bliss is far from that definition. And for the record, my kids haven't yet succeeded in driving me nuts, that I married quite young, and that I truthfully feel young. Just the other day, to mention, a friend whom I haven't seen in awhile that I randomly saw, told me how my skin had the glow of happiness, and he speaks the truth. I mean, I'm happy, and thrilled that I'm glowing if that were really the case, which I can only attribute to being loved and held tight quite often.
In the blur that is the month of May: I remember Taylor Hicks as the Joe Cocker feeling guy I picked out in the only episode of American Idol I watched this season, now living the American Dream, and good for him because he looks a cross between Jay Leno and George Clooney and sort of unAmerican Idol; my good friend weeping softly during the final mass for her father's passing and I remember myself thinking that I will always have to be around to witness the saddest moments in life of people I care for, which is sad; watching my 15 year-old Antonia preen and love it in her 'Chorus Line' costume, which struck me how beautiful and grown-up she looks;
I relize how I miss my sister Marivic, now visiting, and who quipped 'wow, time flies so fast!', which is my sentiment exactly, as she will be going back home to New York in a few days; to be endlessly growing out short hair that's dreadfully neither here nor there, that did not qualify me to keep the lovely ribbons and flowers Vic brought home for me to tie the long hair with; an unexpected call from a sister in a funk, and thoughts of a problematic brother nobody has spoken to in months ...
Yesterday particularly stood out in a haze of intermittent rainsoaked days, for being very hot, that later gave way to a black and all-the-more-vicious-for-being-Saturday-night thunderstorm that left trees and roadsigns whiplashed, a bummer flashflood on its wake, and daughter Fatima grumbling for not being allowed to go to a gig that she 'really, really, really wanted to watch'; as a treat to myself I wrote me a letter, and I know how to write letters, and I shall receive it sometime in the future, and I suggest you do the same via FutureMe.org, especially if you do not care to lick envelopes and are not in the habit of collecting postage stamps; pastel shades of memory that was a fearless portion of banana split with double dollops of whipped cream I made for myself on Arianna's birthday, which fills my cream quota for the year; my husband who looks at me with love and tenderness that never changed, just like the way he did on the day he married me .... did I say I was out of stories to tell? It's probably more of not being in the mood to tell. If I were, then this just goes on and on and on ...
Filed Under: Randomly
Tags: FutureMe.Org
<< Home