Just Love Them

MOTHER’S DAY 2020

LOVING YOU BOTH WAS THE EASY PART.  THAT FEELING OF LOVE-

OH MY CHILDREN, SUCH AN EASY FEELING.

DID YOU KNOW THAT EVERY TIME I CHANGED A POOPIE DIAPER I KNEW I LOVED YOU.

DID YOU KNOW THAT EVERY TIME I RAN TO YOUR CRIB WITH NO SLEEP-

I LOVED YOU.

DID YOU KNOW THAT EVERY TIME I HELD YOU TO MY BREAST –

I LOVED YOU.

DID YOU KNOW THAT EVERY TIME I YELLED WHEN I SHOULD’T HAVE-

I LOVED YOU.

DID YOU KNOW THAT I WAS STILL

TRYING TO FIGURE IT ALL OUT?

DID YOU KNOW WHEN I APOLOGIZED FOR MY SHORTCOMINGS-

I WAS SAYING, “I LOVE YOU.”

DID YOU KNOW THAT LOVING YOU WAS THE EASY PART?

DID YOU KNOW THAT I THOUGHT MY LOVE WOULD BE ENOUGH?

LOVE THEM. AND, I DID.  I DO.

AND THEN, I REMEMBERED THIS…

JUST LOVE THEM

THE DAY WE BROUGHT YOU 

HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL

I CRIED-

WHAT DO I DO WITH HER?

LOVE HER-

AND I DID.

I DO

FIVE YEARS LATER WE BROUGHT YOU

HOME TO MEET YOUR BIG SISTER.

I CRIED-

WHAT DO I DO WITH HIM?

WHAT DO I DO WITH THEM?

LOVE HIM-

LOVE THEM-

AND I DID.

I DO—

LOVE, MOM

4 P.M. Play Gin Rummy

I wish I could help you. I wish I had all of the answers. Why do writers write?
I write because my brain hurts if I don’t. I write because I want to inspire.
I write because I want to help. I write because I want to entertain you.
I write because when I was a young girl and I began writing poetry,  essays, and funny little ditties my mother told me, “you are such a good writer, Cookie, please keep writing.”

In Stephen King’s “On Writing,” he gives his top thirteen writing tips. One tip is to write every day.  I subscribe to the notion that like teaching a child to read anything daily, writing needs the same devotion even if it is just a list. A list I can expand and develop into a story or essay.  He has twelve other tips, but I don’t much follow them because I am not a good student.  Well, I really am a good student, but writing is an outlet for me and I don’t much like to follow the rules when I am writing.  I just used “much” as a modifier, so you get my point.

My mother and my grandmother wrote poetry, songs, essays,
and letters. Come to think of it most everyone on both sides of my family is
creative with storytelling or writing. Even the most reserved like my father
can put pen to paper and write an interesting piece.  I recently realized this about my dad when I read an essay he wrote about his childhood.  It was laugh out loud funny.  My dad is not a gregarious guy.  He is a numbers guy with that quiet dry humor.  When I read what he wrote, I realized he had a way of expressing himself on paper that I did not know he possessed.  Before Google he would call me long distance to get my opinion of how a sentence sounded.  He would even seek spelling advice if he didn’t have a dictionary handy.  I wonder if anyone ever encouraged him to write?  If not, I think I will be the one to encourage him.

I write every day. Sometimes it’s just a list, but my lists are detailed and colorful.  They are very telling.  You can get a snapshot of what kind of a day I am having by the tone and handwriting of my list.  Clear legible writing means I am having an even keel day. Maniacal writing that looks like three different people wrote it means I am all over the place. Yes, if you know me you think that most of my lists are like this. Could be. One thing about my lists, they are always thorough and my time is very well-managed. There is always a method to my madness.

When my son was in elementary school he saw one of my daily list which detailed- 2:45 pm pick Ben up from school.  3:00 pm pick Camille up from school. He looked at me and incredulously asked, “You have to PUT US ON YOUR list?!!” My response, “I have never forgotten one of you, have I?”

Yes, writers write for many reasons. Today I am writing because writing each day is on my list of things to do and because my mother told me I should.

Sir Real Walks Into A Room

Author’s Note-About 10 years ago I started creating a character in my thoughts named, Sir Real.  He was bizarre-surreal on the surface but deep down he was authentic and trying to find out who he really was.  I am sharing one of my short stories about Sir Real on my blog.

Sir Real Walks Into a Room

He was a small man who appeared 6 feet tall.  When he walked in the room, all eyes were upon him.  His presence made everyone look.  He hated this.  He wore black, and a hat was always on his head.  The hat made him feel like he was hiding from their gaze.  He didn’t realize that the cap set him apart from everyone.  Not everyone can get away with wearing a hat. 

Who was he?  Why did they all want to talk to him?

What was it about Sir Real?

He was ordinary, or so he thought.  Unremarkable.  He was born into a typical family.  Traditional. Routine. Standard. He didn’t have any talents.  He was, on the surface, a friendly person, but people wore him out.  Exhausted him. 

But, there was something about being with people and connecting with them that allured Sir Real.  The problem was when he entered their presence, the presence of people, he put on his mask.  Correction.  He didn’t put on the mask; a reflexive facade of protection covered him. 

He became the life of the party.  The teller of stories. He felt his place was to entertain and to make others laugh. Not just smile, but to laugh.  He was infused with energy. Sir Real wasn’t a teller of stories, but a teller of truth.

When he was finished he was spent.  Depleted.

  

Sir Real thought he knew who he was, but as he got older, he began to question himself.  His life.  His purpose.  As he was growing up, he thought he was supposed to entertain others and give them what they wanted or what they needed.  A good laugh or a good story to make them feel good.  As he aged, he began to realize that his strong personality was what he hated the most.  He didn’t want to be that person.  Others told him to “just be yourself, just be who you are.”  He wasn’t quite sure if he knew who he was.  One day he put on a colored shirt which complimented his tanned skin.  He quickly took it off.  “Color will bring more attention to me,” he thought. 

He didn’t want that attention.  He wanted attention on his terms. 

When he walked into a room people would smile.  They would remark, “Sir Real, where do you get all of your energy?”  Sir Real was known as an over the top bizarre character, but Sir Real was one of the most authentic people one would hope to meet.  He was loyal.  He paid attention to people.  He listened, even when they thought he wasn’t listening.  He heard everything they were saying.  Perhaps that is why Sir Real had to take a break from people.  Sometimes what they are saying is not meant for the ears of a veritable shrinking persona.