The Things I Have Conquered Today
The things I have conquered today, may not seem like much to you.
But while you were at work away, I did laundry and then went though
Our old baby's old clothes and his room, Some I threw out or gave away.
A few I kept, because quite soon, our boy's child may come here to stay
A night or two, with me and you.
If I keep up my health and smile, our son might allow me to hold
The precious girl just for a while and keep me from growing too old.
I washed the dishes and dried them, and I changed the sheets on our bed.
In your pants, I took up the hem. I painted the chicken coop red.
I wanted to spruce the lawn up.
Nonsensical. Noncommittal. Disingenuous.
She exists in a state of perennial, nonsensical gratification. Flitting from blossom to blossom, she quenches her thirst with ever changing flavors. The nectar of the honeysuckle has no sooner faded from her tongue, than the vibrant violet catches her attention. The morning glory, the lilac, the mums, the hyacinth.
She is too disinclined to engage on the same excursion a second time for fear it was her destiny to summit only once. Too disingenuous to admit defeat, she embarks on the journeys tailored to a skillset she hasn't cultivated, but rather been granted. Why conquer the dawn wall if she can walk up the trail behind and sit on the peak of the captain with her feet dangling over the aspiring climbers?
She's too afraid to decide on one meal, because there is a chance she may like another better. She samples bites from each like a famous critic. Never full, only a whetted appetite. Too soon, the restaurant is closed, and she has no choice but to go somewhere else to find a morsel to tide her over until she may embark on another journey, tasting, and tasting but never full. Noncommittal, lest she find herself satisfied: only to be let down again.
Youth. Beauty. Time. They are her pleasure and damnation.
White Feathered Wings
When you were an itty-bitty baby, before you even took your first breath, you lived inside your mama's belly. Of course, you don't remember that, but it’s okay; I don't either.
You were only days old when God began to craft the heart that beats in your chest. You were only the size of an apple seed when he gave you your bright blue eyes. When you were no bigger than a grape, He formed your toes and your fingers. Can you imagine how tiny they were if your whole body was that small? Soon he made your ears, and teeny teeth that would grow in someday. Yes, I know you lost one of them last week.
You began to wiggle around and poke your mama with your elbows and your feet. You were ready to get out and run! God took a whole nine months just to make you; almost a year! That means He loves you very much.
Did you know that He spent that much time making your mama too? She was in my belly thirty years ago. He watched over her from heaven while she grew up. She went to school and, later, married your dad. She had your big sister, then you. Over that time, he began to miss your mama. He longed to hold her close and wipe away all of her tears. He wanted to give her beautiful white wings and let her lay in the fields of flowers under the warm sun.
You and I had our time with her here, but now it's God's turn to spend time with her. Don’t worry, though. Someday you and I will join her up there. God will bring us up to stay with him. We'll have pretty feathered wings, too. Then you and your momma can race after each other and catch fireflies again, for as long as you want. You’ll never grow tired. You will laugh and she will take you up into her arms and kiss your pretty brown curls soon. It will all be okay.
Wasted Time
You say that I'm bringing you down.
But you guilt tripped me through three summers.
And you never tell me you love me.
Did everyone know, but me?
Waiting on bad luck,
I'm a hostage who has had enough.
I'm always out of dollar bills.
I bleed out like modern art.
I keep finding all your hair ties in my room.
Every tear drop builds up.
I got all these shattered pieces in my soul.
Spent a lot of nights forgetting who I am.
Accept that life is a beautiful mess.
I go along for the ride; it will be alright.
I've been waiting all my life, yes,
I swear all I wanted was to feel like I did something right.
Song List:
We All Got Friends, AJ Smith
All Night, Luna Blue
What a Shame, STRUAN
Dumpster Fire, Knox
HOSTAGE, Brandon Bales
I Love Myself, People R Ugly
Modern Art, Little Hurt
Cool Kids, Harrison Boe
Sad Sugar, New Friends
Spinach in My Teeth, BIZZY
My Sister
I noticed the swell or her stomach, so gently sloping before I even took in the features on her face. Her round belly was wrapped in a pretty floral top that mom had worn years ago when she was pregnant. My sister had told me she was pregnant a few months ago. I saw her post photos of the baby bump on all her social medias with her typical artistic flair. She and her husband live across the country in sunny California. I don’t know why they’d waste a week of California spring to spend that time in New England. We can boast of frost and rain until mid-May some years. Longer if you’re one of the brave souls who lives up in Maine.
Mom reached her first, enveloping her in an overly cautious embrace. Mom has had five children, yet she treats my sister as if childbearing is the most dangerous condition ever. I don’t mean to insult pregnant women, really, I don’t. I’ve never been pregnant, and I’m not sure I ever will. But our mom acts like even a too-firm hug could injure her daughter or the granddaughter within her womb. She fell down the stairs with her second child and was in a car accident with me, the baby of the family. Every single one of us was fine. I think women are more resilient than we’re given credit for, that’s all.
We exchanged hugs and hellos and retired to the living rooms when their suitcases were brought in. My dad immediately made sure my sister could put her feet up and had a glass of water in her hand. I guess she should be pampered. She’s growing a human being after all. She’s seven months pregnant. Every time she glances at her belly or brushes a hand against it, she smiles. Maybe they’re being cautious because they’ve had trouble keeping babies. Two confirmed miscarriages and a few more that my sister claims were certainly pregnancies but were gone too early to test.
Her husband sat proudly beside her. He doesn’t talk much at first, you really have to let him get comfortable before he joins in the conversation. I wasn’t sure he was going to say anything at all. His eyes hadn’t left his wife and the baby hidden inside of her.
I love my sister, I do. But nobody was even half this excited when two of our brothers announced they were having kids with their spouses the last few years. My sister was always the golden child, though, so maybe we brought this on ourselves, anyway. Growing up she was the first one to answer when mom or dad called. She had all As and did her chores without being asked. She competed at the state level in high school in cross country and won scholarships for athletics, her artwork, and her academics. If she were my kid, I’d have a hard time not favoring her, too. But I could tell, even if nobody else could, that my brothers were hurt about how excited mom and dad were for her baby rather than theirs.
I love my sister a lot. She’s never once done anything to make me dislike her even a little; She had a big heart and was a great big sister growing up. She taught me how to put on makeup, style my hair, and even shave my legs. Maybe I do resent her a little. It’s just because I know mom taught her all of those things. I just wish that rather than my wonderful sister teaching me, it would have been mom. I wish mom had taken a moment and spent it with just me, teaching me what it means to be a woman. I don’t even know how to complain about it without sounding whiny or ungrateful.
She went into preterm labor near the end of her visit. And now I feel like a real jerk for being jealous of her the whole time.
Why I Write
He really liked my writing, actually. He was fascinated with my words. He had an uncanny ability to memorize any passage of literature no matter how large it was. He read every poem, short story, and even edited my first novel. I guess he thought it would impress me if he could quote my own words back at me. I found it awkward. At first, I really enjoyed it. He was more enthusiastic to read my work than any friend, romantic or otherwise, had ever been. But it changed. He started asking me if I'd written anything. If I had, he just absolutely had to get his hands on it. I'd always said my writing was a part of me. Quoting my words back to me, he said he just wanted to get to know me.
I know lying is wrong, but when he asked if I had created anything recently, no matter what had flowed onto the page, I said no. I preferred to volunteer pieces for his consumption and criticism. It worked for a little while. I could relax and write whatever I wanted to. My therapist recommended journaling and even gave me a composition book to use.
In my free time, I often used the journal. I hadn't handwritten much in a while, but it was even more cathartic than my keyboard. He caught me one time, writing an entry with a poem and a drawing of a bird tacked onto the bottom.
He asked to see it, and when I refused, it was like a cold breeze blew into the room. His entire demeanor changed. It darkened in a physical way that I'd never experienced from him before. "Are you hiding something from me?"
Naive as I was, I found no other argument to prove my innocence than to hand over the entry. And to my deepening horror, he flipped open to the first page. Any protest that the words in there were private, were hushed and waved away as if I were just a fly. I told him that I couldn't watch him read it in front of me and I let him take it home.
I wish I could go back to that moment sometimes and dump him right there on the spot. He claimed a relationship was built on trust, and if I didn't trust him, then we couldn't be together. But I could have done two things: first, I could have said, alright, then I don't trust you and we would have ended. Second, I could have accused him of not trusting me. But I was so afraid of losing him, of losing someone who cared about me, that I let him walk all over me.
I stopped writing.
I lied to my therapist about the journal.
I attempted a few soulless poems. Though likely some of my prettiest verses, all for him, I've since deleted them.
He thanked me for my openness with the journal when he gave it back to me. I still have the journal. I never filled in the last twenty pages or so, even though I had wanted, originally, to complete the entire thing like a physical copy of my memories, my emotions, and my ponderings. I haven't ever gone back to read it, despite the memory lapses, for there was more than just the manipulation. I don't keep it to remind myself of the pain and stupidity of that year and a half. I keep it to remind myself that I won't be naive or allow myself to be smothered. I keep it to remind myself to keep writing. Not for him, not for my friends, not for my family, not even for my husband who I'm completely enamored with. I keep writing for myself.
The Workplace
Mariah tried to ignore her two coworkers loitering behind her at the watercooler. She likely had the worst cubicle in the entire office. She could see them in the reflection of the little silver hand mirror propped up on her desk. Her grandmother had left it for her when she passed. It probably deserved better than to collect dust in her office space.
Bill laughed too loudly. Today he wore an incorrectly tied striped tie of varying shades of brown and red. He was narrating the night before. Apparently, he’d gone on a blind date, and the woman had been a bit… over the top.
She’d had a crush on him when she first worked in the office. But when he’d blatantly ignored her, or worse, teased her, that little crush had fizzled.
Aaron, who never left Bill’s side, grinned at every overly dramatic, grotesque detail. At least he could tie his tie correctly. He was married, though. His wife probably did it. Would she be happy if she knew what he and Bill were discussing while they pretended to drink water?
Mariah lifted the mirror, pretending to fluff her tight curls. She tilted it just enough to see Sean walking down the hall to the cooler. She didn’t have to move the mirror to know Seth was walking down the hall on the other side. Great. The whole posse. She didn’t see what was so exciting about Bill. But the other three practically worshiped the ground he walked on.
Mariah tried her best to focus on the email. Mr. Guilligan, Thank you for your quick response. In regard to invoice 03254-1—
“Raya!”
Mariah whipped her head around to face Bill. “It’s Mariah,” she said with a frown.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Bill chuckled. He had a nice smile— An attractive face, really, but there was nothing else positive she could say about him.
“What do you want?” She sighed. “Some of us have work to do.”
“We want your opinion to help us settle a bet,” Bill said, gesturing to his companions. “Which of us is more likely to get a date at the bar tonight?”
Mariah turned back around in her chair. “I’m not playing that game, Bill.” She continued typing. She hoped they couldn’t tell how red her face was.
“Someone’s got a stick up her ass,” Sean scoffed quietly. Not quietly enough.
In her mirror she could see the group disbanding. Finally. Maybe she’d move the water cooler before she left tonight. She’d place it behind Toby’s desk. He wouldn’t tolerate their banter. Bill hadn’t left her alone since the Christmas party: teasing and taunting. He could have any woman in the office if he wanted. Including Sarah, the new receptionist. She was about as pretty as they came, and sweet, too, as far as Mariah could tell. She’d flirted with Bill so many times it was a wonder he hadn’t invited her out yet.
Mariah watched the time tick down to five pm. It took forever. She dumped the rest of her lo mein left from lunch in the trash can. The janitors cleaned on Tuesday so her cubicle wouldn’t smell like it tomorrow. She needed to start eating healthier. She made pretty good pay and lived in a modest apartment with roommates. She could certainly afford to buy the healthy stuff. Maybe she’d hit the grocery store that evening.
She slung her purse strap over her shoulder and slid her grandma’s mirror into an inside pocket. She’d put it somewhere in her apartment. She’d buy a cheap one for the office. She double checked that her computer was completely off, and her desk was locked. Satisfied, she took the stairs down to the lobby despite the way her heels bit into her feet. She’d have to wear flats tomorrow.
Mariah made it to the lobby. It was pretty. There was a tall wall with a waterfall running over it. The white tile floors were always clean. She still thought the building with its live plants and modern lighting was as pretty as when she’d come to work here as an intern.
“Hey, Raya, wait up!”
Damnit. Mariah kept walking. “Goodnight, Bill.”
He skidded to a stop in front of her. “Hey, I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier. That was out of line.”
“Oh,” She had not expected that. “Well, you’re forgiven. Just, maybe have your conversations not right behind my cubicle.”
“S— Sure.” He stammered, running a hand through his dark hair. “Raya— Mariah, would you like to go on a date with me?”
That was even more unexpected.
“Bill!” Aaron jogged across the lobby, flanked by Sean and Seth. “Want to hit The Diaz tonight?
It could be some mean office prank. She turned to his friends. “Actually, he just asked me on a date.”
All three turned to him, incredulous. Maybe he’d been serious. “Did you?” Sean asked.
Mariah looked at Bill. “Your answer is mine,” She shrugged, “But if you say no, that door is shut for good.”
She’d never seen Bill turn red like this. It was nice to know that he could get embarrassed. He didn’t say anything.
“Right,” Mariah shook her head. She walked towards the door. Her heels clicked across the floor. She’d take a cab to the store. She made it almost to the vestibule.
“Yes!” He called after her. “Mariah!”
Our Baby Girl
I knew he was the one I wanted to marry again and again and again when we were dating. He volunteered to do the dishes after Thanksgiving at his parents' house. He refused to let my mom pay him for house sitting. He holds his baby niece and wrestles his young nephews with all the tenderness of a father. I wanted that for our kids, too.
We got married in June. It was beautiful. We shared our first kiss as a married couple before a pink Montanna sun setting over the big blue mountains. There wasn't a luckier girl in the world.
We had an awkward wedding night where we both sheepishly admitted that we'd get better over time. And we did. Four months into our marriage, I drove to the dollar store and snagged a pink box from the shelf. I could feel my face turning red; I'd never bought a test before. I made sure I handed the item to the cashier with my left hand, so she'd see my ring.
In our apartment, my hands shook so badly, I dropped the first test in the toilet. I hadn't told my husband I suspected anything. I knew he'd be excited, though. Every time we made love, he'd tell me he hoped this one conceived a child. I wasn't disappointed.
When I showed him the faint pink line on the strip, he spun me in a circle. He even teared up when the doctor confirmed the pregnancy. It was perfect.
Six months into the pregnancy, I caught him texting another woman. I only read a few messages over his shoulder before he caught me. But they seemed pretty cut and dried: She couldn't wait to have sex with him again. In October. When he was going on a trip.
Of course, I cried; bawled my eyes out, more appropriately. My husband's first words however at my frame-wracking sobs were, "calm down. Think of the baby." Of course, he was right, I didn't want to lose her. But of all the things to say, why those words?
The truth, or some version of it, tumbled out. He told me that she was someone from high school. He'd done nothing but message her. As for having sex again, he said they hadn't had sex since high school.
Of course, I was angry. Maybe I should have left right there. Instead, I demanded he block her number. I'd forgive him if it really was just a moment of weakness.
"Done." He'd said. I watched him block the number in front of me.
I was too afraid to tell my mom or my friends. They'd overreact. They didn't know him like I did. It was a mistake.
We drifted after that. I still didn't want to speak to him, and he didn't really try to engage with me, either. At some point, he stopped joining me in bed at night. I held out hope, though, that the baby might change everything. Maybe she could fix our relationship.
I was with my mom and my brother when I went into labor. My mom called my husband, but he didn't pick up. She tried to call from my phone, but he didn't answer. So, she sent him a message: Your wife is going into labor.
I gave birth to a healthy girl early the next morning. My husband never came. Rather than my husband holding my knee as I pushed, it was a young nurse. Rather than my husband getting me ice chips and a cool towel, it was some young volunteer. I held our new child alone in the hospital for two days and he never came.
My brother confirmed that he wasn't at our house, so I let my parents take me to their house. It felt wrong laying in my childhood bed holding a screaming little girl and wondering where my husband had gone. I wish I'd never found out.
The day I was pushing a human child from my body, he was filing for divorce and full custody of our baby girl. Three days postpartum, and I had a legal battle on my hands for the infant wailing on my chest.
My father called his lawyer friends for advice. My mom called everyone she knew to pray that I'd get to keep my baby. Generally, the Montanna courts favor women. So, despite having no income, I won full custody of my baby. He got the house, but I'd never be able to keep it alone. I moved back into my parents' house.
The secret got out of how the whole mess transpired. The woman he'd cheated with, had never been a fling. When they found out she was infertile, they launched a plan for him to have a child with someone else and gain full custody in court. He'd spent our marriage financially isolating me and doing whatever he could to set me up to fail. If it weren't for my parents, he would have won.
My baby is almost two years old now. Mercifully, she looks just like me. I still see her father on occasion at the grocery store or in passing at the park. The restraining order keeps him far, but not far enough. He watches from a distance. He's tried to bring the custody battle back to the courts, but his case was thrown out.
My curly haired beauty hasn't asked about her father yet. She hasn't connected that her uncle and I have a dad, or that all her playmates have daddies. I'm not sure what I'll tell her. Until then, I'll keep looking for that shadow that lurks 100 yards away.