stop wishing

to be older

because i can tell you

that once you hit your teen years

you wish to be

young again.

you go through hell

and maybe you even

enjoy it a little bit.

Dear Younger Me,

stay right where you are,

live in the present

because future holds

family rivalries,

questions about yourself

and those around you.

your grandfather who used to toss quarters on the floor

and say that he had holes in his pockets

is homophobic

and won't accept you for who you are,

so while he dies of COVID a few states away,

you don't know what to feel.

you see the ugly side of your family

and the ugly side of kids

and the ugly side of

yourself.

when you get older,

everything seems ugly,

and you wish you could go back to

when you were younger

and everything seemed

beautiful.

Dear Younger Me,

stay away from

the golden boy

because his gold

is pyrite

and even though he glitters

he is worthless.

Dear Younger Me,

quit wishing to be older

and enjoy your youth

before it all gets

taken away from you.

Dear Younger Me,

rely on reality,

no matter how bad it seems,

because fantasy will only tear you to shreds

as you question who you are.

Dear Younger Me,

stay away from toxic friends,

they taint you forever,

and years later, you haven't shaken

them.

Dear Younger Me,

don't worry so much about your grades,

they go to shit anyway.

Dear Younger Me,

keep writing,

because it's the only thing that keeps you living.

Dear Younger Me,

don't run away from home,

you don't know how good you've got it.

Eventually, you'll learn that

your family is beautiful and kind

and you'll learn how lucky you are.

Dear Younger Me,

just remember

that it's okay to forget

and that it's okay to remember.

To my past self,

I can't change my past.

It's done.

If I could, I would,

but sometimes,

I don't think it will matter

if you get this letter or not,

because in our weakness,

when we are stuck in the past,

we forget the future.

Dear Younger Me,

keep writing.

Keep writing.

Keep on writing and writing

because if you stop,

you'll lose the last

gift

you have left.

Dear Younger Me,

stop trying to get older

because when you get older,

you start to know things

that you'd rather stay hidden.

And speaking of hiding places,

don't bother hiding

those scraps of metal you find,

and don't bother wearing long sleeves,

because they'll find it anyway

so you might as well

own it.

You might not know what I mean by that yet,

but you will,

because you can't change the past,

even with a warning

from the future.

Nevermind that he committed suicide the next morning, Ernest Hemingway’s famous last words to his wife were romantic.

“Good night my kitten.”

By comparison, my husband Larry’s last words to me, “Come inside already. That garden of yours is gonna be the death of you,” sound lackluster if not controlling; and about as romantic as “Pass the salt.”

If Larry said those words once, he said them 999 times, repeated every time I was out there on me time, compulsively, belligerently, thrusting open the kitchen window on high octane, even when his sciatica was acting up, hollering each syllable with the same emphasis in exact order, like a mantra, unable to think creatively whatsoever, never contemplating reversing the two simple silly sentences, let alone inserting an alternate adverb, and why couldn’t he mix things up and call out to me from the back door, instead of the kitchen window above the sink each and every time? Couldn’t he for once avoid messing with the delicate hang of my pressed curtain tiers?

I’d just ignore him, sort of, because although I didn’t run in like possum on a vole back to the house, I could feel my shoveling arm auto shift into high gear, slicing earth like a deli meat until I plum tuckered out calling it quits. As I’d enter the back door all sweaty and ravenous; sorely in need of a beverage, a meal and a body rinse, he’d be sitting at the table twiddling and in-betweening waiting on me to fix his supper instead of putting up a pot for me, (mostly ’cause he was nearly blind as a bat towards the end), so naturally I’d get to fixing right away but not before I’d say,

“Larry you’ve gone and done it again! Look at my curtains!”

But the last time he called out from the window was different. By the time I got into the kitchen, I did not inherit the opportunity to demonstrate a retaliatory curtain kerfuffle. Larry’s head was face down on the kitchen table like a big pile of silly putty on a newspaper, deceased from a massive aneurysm.

The sad truth is, ironically; and I hate to admit this, Larry’s last words were 100 percent accurate. The garden was the death of me. I was found by my conscientious mailman too late; as I succumbed to heat stroke on a sunny unseasonable 95 degree day in early June. His postal eagle eye caught a glimpse of me while he stepped up onto the porch to deliver my chamomile tea. He noticed me in the side yard slumped over a cluster of azaleas and dialed 911; even attempted to pull me into the shade while my clippers were still married to my fingers, not knowing if it was too late, poor thing, since with the back of his hand he felt the high heat coming off my tomato face, expecting death to be cold, not realizing I was no different than a shrimp on the bar-be.

But that was then, and as I retell all that memory lane nonsense, Larry is right here beside me chucking a chuckle that brings out his sweet dimples, those same dimples that had been lost with age, swallowed up by the sundry cavernous lines that come with fretting over time. Not sure if I’m supposed to let the cat out of the bag, but on this side, when you get to the gate, there is a form to fill out. Old school, no wifi. You get a pencil and a manilla envelope with your name on the outside (obviously no need for an address), with your D.O.B. and D.O.D. under your name and inside the envelope is a questionnaire to be filled out with three absolute questions.

1. What age do you want to be for all eternity?

2. If you could do one thing with your time in eternity, what would that be?

3. If you could pick one person to share eternity with, who would that be?

Taking me somewhat by surprise, I wondered if Larry was right on the other side of that gate and if he was, what were his three answers? After laying him to rest, I admit I had not thought of him much while I toiled my days away betwixt the rutabaga and the beets. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my husband dearly and I was lonely without him, but a newly unbridled horse is gonna run.

Pencil in hand, slightly bewildered by my clarity, my mind automatically turned to our wedding day all those years ago, almost as if someone popped in an old VHS tape of our special day implanting it into my mind. There we were dancing The Wah Watusi in front of all our loved ones, like two 30 something year old kids, not caring who was in front of us, not wondering if we looked like fools; during the whole evening affair I maintained my focus on his luscious dimples, the comfortable sound of his laugh and our dancing feet; a sound I had forgotten about; the sound of young love.

Without knowing if my answers were to be accepted or denied, done, done, and done:

1. 30

2. Dance

3. Larry

And the gate opened, and there you were, weren’t you Larry, looking as dashing as you did on the day we said “I do.”

So you see? Death ain’t so bad after all. Never did think too much about it when I was alive. Larry on the other hand admittedly did. But I don’t hold it against him. I’m too busy dancing without a care and staring into those dimples that somehow had gotten lost between the root vegetables; somewhere out there, on the other side.

https://video.search.yahoo.com/video/play;_ylt=A0geJaZ1cLheGlIAhTfBGOd_;_ylu=X3oDMTByMjB0aG5zBGNvbG8DYmYxBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--?p=the+wah+watusi&back=https%3A%2F%2Fsearch.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%3Fp%3Dthe%2Bwah%2Bwatusi%26ei%3DUTF-8&turl=https%3A%2F%2Ftse2.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOVP.RTFxDKk2mlD0D1IfsO4eBQHgFo%26amp%3Bpid%3DApi%26w%3D144%26h%3D77%26c%3D7&rurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DOcQQi9vbZZE&tit=The+Wah+Watusi&l=171&vid=dd2bb24ac6a91cf9133270020b5debd9&sigr=7BO9UkxI8lPf&sigb=OcOFDOQAixMy&sigt=aY9R_.xDvhMp&sigi=Ir4ijp_tQf9e

Ten fingers,

ten toes

two eyes

and a nose

healthy cry

tiny feet

little mouth

with which to eat

No happier in life

will I ever be

than this moment,

she thought lovingly.

Some years later

she finds she was wrong

listening as accolades

of her son are sung –

No happier in life

will I ever be

than this moment,

she thought lovingly.

Then, one day

she hears him interviewed

he praises his dad’s diligence

and his mom’s kindness, too –

heart bursting with pride

and joy at his words

filled with delight

for the views that she’s heard

No happier in life

will I ever be

than this moment,

she thought lovingly…

Perhaps this is it

the “happiest” days are behind

the beautiful memories

just shadows in her mind;

she’s still hopeful the burdens and sorrows to come

won’t obscure the joys of the past;

the key will be to remember with fondness not sadness,

to make the essence of the happiest days ever last.

I loved Mrs. Glines. She lived in the little house across the street from ours. A hint of some sweet aroma wafted through me each time I opened her door. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I’ve come to know it as Rosewater and Glycerin. Now, as an adult, whenever I smell Rosewater and Glycerin, Mrs. Glines is the only person who comes to mind. Mrs. Glines lived alone. Her hair was wonderfully white. In the sun it shone like iridescent angel hair. She always wore it up. She was a small woman. She wore freshly pressed cotton house dresses and pretty matching sweaters that were sometimes held together at the top button with a flower pin of some sort. When I was around six years old I began visiting her. Her small house was extremely neat and clean. She had numerous interesting things in her house, but what I loved most was her collection of China teapots and Cups and her beautifully crocheted doilies. It seemed as if she was constantly crocheting doilies. Whenever I visited, I would watch in amazement as her tiny, slender fingers busily worked to transform the balls of white cotton thread into little, lacy masterpieces not unlike spiders “magically” creating a beautiful web. I marveled at the doilies whose edges were crisply ruffled and stood neatly at attention on her tabletops. I was curious, though. What made the soft cotton thread stiff in the final product? What did she do to it to make it that way? One day I asked the question.

She said, “Well, now, that is a very good question. Why don’t we have a cup of tea and I will tell you all about it.”

“Tea?” I asked. “Will you use your china tea pot and pretty china cups?”

“Well, of course, dear,” she said. “There is really no other way to host a proper tea party, is there?”

A tea party, I thought. A real tea party with real china cups. I wonder if she has any cookies?

We were to sit in her parlor at a small round table adorned, of course, with a beautiful doily. In the kitchen, Mrs. Glines busily began preparing our tea. I watched with eager delight as she filled a delicate crystal dish with small sugar cubes using tiny tongs. She then filled a small delicate matching crystal milk pitcher. I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Why, yes you can. Thank you. There are cookies in that jar on the counter.” As my gracious hostess took a lovely blue and white china plate edged in gold and handed it to me saying, “You could put some cookies on this plate and take it to the table.” Umm…cookies, I thought. I placed my interpretation of “some cookies” on the plate and took them to our tea party table. As I placed the plate, I couldn’t stop thinking how Mrs. Glines seemed to trust me with her delicate china and treated me with so much patient kindness - a rare commodity in my own house.

Mrs. Glines brought in the tea and cups on a silver tray and placed it between us on the table. I smiled and said, “This is really nice, Mrs. Glines. I love tea parties and my mom is too busy to have tea parties with me and my brothers and dad don’t care much for tea parties. Thank-you, very much.”

Mrs. Glines smiled at me. She seemed to enjoy the tea party, too. She said,

“You know, I have tea parties quite often and usually I am the only one who attends. I would be delighted if you would join me.”

“Oh, thank-you,” I said. “I don’t want to be any bother.”

She replied, “My dear, it would be no bother at all. It would be my pleasure.”

After we agreed on the issue of the tea parties, Mrs. Glines went on to explain her “doily stiffening method” to me. She explained how once the doily is completed she soaks it in a starch-water solution. When it has soaked long enough, she then explained how she carefully flattens the doily out and stretches it into the right shape on a flannel padded board, pinning it into place with long straight pins and dries it outside in the hot sun. It all sounded quite interesting to me. I told her that I did not even know how to crochet, but she said that when I got a little older, she would teach me. I said, “OK.”

After that day, I went to her house nearly every day for our tea parties. I looked forward to them. I would eagerly do any chores at my house in order to be able to be at Mrs. Glines’ house for afternoon tea. We went through the same ritual each day, at the same little table. She always had delicious cookies and we always found something interesting to talk about. One day I would choose a china cup with a yellow rose on it and another day I would choose one with tiny, purple violets on it. I could choose any cup I wanted. That was part of the fun of it.

One day, I arrived for our tea party and saw a doily drying in the sun, just as she had described.

“Oh, Mrs. Glines,” I remarked, “this is the prettiest one of all. I love the way you made it with yellow roses and green leaves. All of the other doilies have been all white. This is the only one I’ve seen that has colors. It’s so nice.”

Mrs. Glines smiled that warm, loving smile of hers and said, “Well, thank-you. I’m very glad that you like it. I made it for you.”

My heart literally skipped a beat. I could not believe what I had heard. “Really”, I gasped? “You really made this for me…?”

I gave her a big hug, thanked her hundreds of times and sat staring at MY special doily drying in the sun. We agreed to have our tea party outside that day so I could sit and watch my doily dry. It was a gift from the heart and one that I have treasured in my own heart ever since.

Mrs. Glines is no longer with us, but when she was alive, I continued to visit her enjoying her tea parties. I always believed that she made those little tea parties for me, to make me happy. Now that I am older, I realize that we gave a gift to each other at those afternoon teas. We filled a need in one another that made a lasting difference for each of us. I’ll never forget you, Mrs. Glines.

Fairylights and a Van Gogh poster,

You said kissing in my room meant kissing ‘under the stars’.

Now we’re packed tight in my single bed,

Lying like matches in a box,

Or the last two cigarettes in your pack.

Artificial starlight, now artificial moonlight,

The soft blue silhouette of your body against my alarm clock.

Smooth edges and crisp lines.

Angel wing shoulder blades, and unruly black curls.

And me, awake.

My college student body clock

And your new 9to5 job,

My weeks of 4am, black coffee assignments

And your parade of midday clients,

Your deep sleep breath,

And my acute fear of transience.

And the two of us in bed,

Alone

Together.

My life is full of empty spaces.

Long quiet days spent listening to things that don't remind me of you: a drip against the sink basin, black cat snores, ice falling from the balcony, commercials.

I keep a list of all the things people places I can no longer enjoy: songs by <i>Toto</i>, flavored cola, beaches, fighting leprechauns, baby giggles.

This time should be about healing, but it's been about you. And I haven't figured out how to make it not. I make lists and write poems and spend more time alone than my doctor would prescribe.

Still, it would be wrong to say you never gave me anything. You gave me bruises and heartache and mental illnesses. You gave me a type of pain that made me feel like my lungs were swollen, filled with concrete and drowning.

I'm unable to clear our moments from my memory. I want it most, to let go to give up to move on. I threw you away and it's done <i>it's done</i> <i><b>it's done</i></b>; holding on to trash is stupid.

○

My life is full of empty spaces, now.

So I'll curl up in them and stretch and grow and sleep soundly, knowing these days are better without you.

I recieved a text message from my ex. We had dated for two years before I realized he was only taking advatage of me, but I have long forgiven him and moved on with my life. So, nearly eight years later, his message surprised me.

“Hey. I’ve been thinking about you, and I really miss you. Do you ever think about me?”

I thought about it for a moment, and I answered him. “Yes, in fact, I do think of you from time to time. I remember a lot about our relationship. For example, the other day, my dad took me to a new Thai restaurant that opened on the other side of town. We began a competition to see who could eat the hottest curry. I won, but in the end, I was the true loser. I spent two whole days on the toilet with what I can only describe as Johnny Cash’s Burning Ring of Fire. I ruined a shower curtain. I had to replace the upholstery in my car. My dog still cowers from me. And the whole time I was thinking, I’d rather be like this every day than ever go back to that useless excuse for a human being I dated in college.”

He didn’t text me back.

Hello! I'm your friendly neighborhood RibeyeMoshpit.

I've been on Prose for about 6 months, now, and I've had a marvelous time getting to learn everyone's writing styles, reading your stories, and being inspired by every one of you. Thank you!

But I have a conundrum that I've been thinking about for awhile now. I started out this anonymous profile as a way to kill time while I was slowly dying of boredom at work. But what has happened is something I never intended nor thought would happen...

You guys actually like to read my stuff.

My weird rantings about government, learning to properly use cuss words, unicorns eating little girls, and stories about people surviving in the real world...

You guys really do like my stuff! I'm above and beyond flattered, and I want to thank every one of you all for reposting, commenting, liking, and basically creating this community of followers.

Here's my issue. I have enough followers now, that I really want to start creating better quality content than something I sped-typed during a 10 minute break. I want to develop my writing style more, and I want to start taking a stand on issues and encouraging productive discussions.

But I can't do that if you don't know who I am.

I used anonymity to give myself free reign and write about any topic without feeling like my real life was attached, but I can't create quality content that inspires others if there is no face to a name.

Hello! My name is Jenni!

I'm from Midwest America, and I'm almost 30 years old.

I married my soul mate last October, and we live in our beautiful house with two black cats. Black cats are my favorite.

I'm a recovered general anxiety/OCD patient, and I've done it all through diet, exercise, and cognitive behavorial therapy.

I'm a Pharmacy Technician.

My favorite color is Purple.

And I'm a carnivore.

No joke. I really am. I eat beef, and that's it.

So, hopefully, you all aren't disappointed to hear I'm just a normal human being like everyone else, and not some meta-being made of steaks, but I feel like if I'm going to write about what matters, then I shouldn't be afraid to have my name attached to it.

Hope you all have an awesome week!