Life Goes On I Suppose

Some of you have been here from the beginning, since Normal to EatPB, so you may know that this blog featured stories of tragedy and a search for normality. But I have ended my tragic theme yesterday. I will still examine normal, but the tragedies have ceased for now.

I've asked you all to vote on what I write about next, and the winner is a write in. Most have said that I should write about whatever I feel like writing about, which means you all win, because I'd like to write poetry, short stories, and tales of the benign and eveyday. And so let's begin; this is me, being normal:

Here is a poem I wrote for my father,

A kiss on the check
a solemn goodbye
to hear his last words
and know they were lies
a promise to keep
that was never kept
a heart that was broken
and eyes that wept
to leave
and forever be gone
to cry
at the break of dawn

I know this poem backwards and forwards, I carry it around in my head like spare change. It jingles and jangles and is with me where ever I go; and that, is the magic of memory.

It's hard to stand by someone like me. Someone with memories like spare change buried at the bottom of my mind-purse. Sometimes they clang together and make so much noise they drive people mad. Sometimes, you reach in, for something very important, and instead your hand draws out one of these memory coins. Sometimes I use them as projectiles, and throw them at my nearest friend.

So it is hard, when you’re being hit with the brunt of memories, I, using all of my brute force
It is hard, when there is a cacophony of irritating jingling
It is hard, when they just keep popping up - those memories - at critical moments that don't require them
It is hard to stand by me

And so, I am blessed by company. Your company, my friend's company, my husband's company; and now that I have cleaned out my mind-purse a little, I am free to accept the blessing.

Tomorrow, More Of The Same - But Different. . .