Happiness is (repost)
I lie on the couch listening to my husband of nearly three decades playing the guitar. I watch his fingers light upon the strings, his eyes closed, his face alive with emotions set free through each note. I fell in love with the music a long time ago.
I was so sad when it ceased. I had worried that childrearing, mortgage and bill paying, endless hours of money-earning and in-laws intruding had killed it.
Then, one day, my son started playing the guitar, picking up songs by ear that my husband had played once upon a time.
And then, my husband started teaching him. Their heads bent together, my son watching his father, my husband watching his son. No arguments or outbursts. No impatience or anger. Music filled my home once again and I watched as son and father found a new harmony together. My heart was full.
And then there’s the music.
I lie on the couch listening as he plays the same song over and over again, this man of mine. Milonga. A tango. My heart begins to melt filling my eyes with tears, as I hope we share this tango long after he plays the last note.
Rainy afternoons.
I wanted to tell you
that I loved you
but instead, I settled for
daydreaming about
cosy, dark, soft afternoons
where you and I
made passionate love
as the rain poured outside...
I wanted to tell you
that I loved you
but instead, I delighted
in silently watching you smile,
memorizing every curve
of those lips that I crave to kiss....
I wanted to tell you
that I loved you
but instead, I watched, helplessly
as you grew tired and got distant...
I watched myself offer my heart, my soul
once again, for love...
I do not know what filled me up more,
self pity at my need for you
or self hatred for never having learnt how to love myself first...
But now I know it’s left me emptier still
destroying what I had rebuilt
to the very core...
I want to tell you
that I love you
but instead, I watch, defeated
as you become a fast fading memory,
a long forgotten daydream...
I want to tell you
that I love you
but you’re not here.
You’re not here.
You’re not here.
-I miss who I used to be, before all of this.
-I can feel you’ve drifted apart and gone away, even though you’re right here with me.
-Love is not enough. But it is all I know. And all I can do.
~Love. Loss.
But Then Came A Fifth
We didn’t always have a family of five. It was once only two. When my older sister came it was three, and when I came it finally became four. That was it. We were only a family of four. I liked our family of four. I always thought that four was a nice number for a family.
But then came a fifth, and that fifth wasn’t even ours to keep. She belonged to somebody else. I remember our car skidding to a stop in front of a dimly lit building I’d never seen before. The only light came from one single door in the corner, almost beckoning us to come in. She was only four months old at the time and felt like a fragile dandelion that could be blown by the slightest breeze.
Mom said she was only supposed to stay the night. That night.
I remember sitting on our big, leather couch watching this giggling mess of a baby trying to roll over on the floor. I wondered what made her giggle so much. I wondered what made me smile when seeing this baby filled with uncontainable laughter.
Mom said she was only supposed to stay this week. That week.
I remember walking through the bread aisle in Publix and being met with the uncomfortable feeling of someone watching my back. Every person in every aisle reacted the same. Their one glance turning into that one stare. She was brown and we were white. Every one of their drawn-out looks was a reminder, that she wasn’t ours to keep. We continued on past the bakery and its sugar-filled smells. Each pastry was a work of art. Yet among the many intricate designs was a simple black and white cookie. Although that simple pastry was made of frosting and dough, not glass, I felt as if my family’s reflection was on display for everyone to see.
Mom said she was only supposed to stay this month. That month.
I remember signing up for the childcare at my church, just so she wouldn’t cry every time we dropped her off. I wondered what made her cry so hard. Did she think we wouldn’t ever come back? Did she think we were leaving her?
Mom said she didn’t know how long she was staying. I hoped forever.
I liked the number five. I thought that five was a nice number for a family. I wanted a family of five.
Mom said we were just going on a trip to Colorado. Just a trip.
I remember asking “Why can’t she come with us?” and Mom replying “She’s too little to go on a plane.” I didn’t argue. Mom was always right. Mom was always right unless she wanted to be wrong.
Wrong. I remember sitting in the fake leather seats in the congested airplane. The air was filled with the sound of high-pitched crying. Looking down the aisle, I could see a small infant, no older than four months, wailing in her mother’s arms. I glanced back at Mom, studying her face. Before I could ask that simple question once more, she answered.
“She went back.” Mom said. The word back seemed hard to say in her mouth. A word that I might have written a thousand times over without it truly having meaning. She went back. She belonged to somebody else. Not us.
I remember that night in Colorado. My white, hotel sheets had been darkened from my tears. The cold, wet feeling left on my pillow that wouldn’t ever dry. We were only a family of four. I hated the number four.
For an entire year, we went without hearing from or seeing her. Our four-person family didn’t feel quite right, like a car with four wheels, yet it was still missing its steering wheel. Our even-numbered family somehow felt odd.
For one of the first times in my life, I kneeled down onto the carpeted flooring in my bedroom and prayed. For the first time, I didn’t fight the tears in my eyes. I let them roll down my cheeks and onto the floor. For the first time, I let out everything.
Why couldn’t she stay? Why couldn’t she look like us? Why couldn’t she… Why couldn’t she…
My hands gripped harder onto my scuffed knees. Each tear tore through me.
And I prayed one simple sentence. Just let me see her again.
As usual, we went to church on Saturday. As usual, we would walk by the playground. It all felt like an as usual Saturday. But then came the fifth, running into the playground. There she was. She was there. But as I came and sat with her on the playground, I saw no recognition in her face.
“Do you know my name?” I smiled trying to say without letting the tears fall. The little brown girl with afro hair shook her head, and then went back to the slides on the playground. Up and down. Up and down. I couldn’t help but watch, my eyes following her movements. Up and down. Up and down.
When I met her once again in the childcare room at church, I couldn’t help but feel overjoyed. Now there was a slight bit of recognition in her face. For me, that was enough. I was surrounded by children, yet I truly cared for only one.
Week after week, I held her in my arms every Saturday. Only on Saturday. I loved Saturday.
Mom said she’s coming back.
Back. The word’s meaning had changed so drastically. She was coming back home. This time I promised to hold onto her tight and never let go.
A year went by - I had gotten used to her monthly visits with the mother, and the difference in the way she acted when she came back home.
Another year - I had gotten used to her father’s letters from jail, which she couldn’t yet read, and his drawings of Mickey Mouse.
Another year - I had gotten used to her funny little questions, “Mommy, when I get older will I be white?”
And on May 26th of that same year, Mom said she would stay. And I knew she meant forever.
A breakup
*Trigger Warning: Abuse*
Remember the day her boyfriend tried to drown her?
Her head was submerged underwater,
arms flailing, trying to find something to grasp
as he held her head down.
Her head was submerged underwater,
water flooding and clawing at her lungs,
as he held her head down.
She says it was like the water ripped her lungs bloody red and bruised.
Water flooding and clawing at her lungs,
she grabbed the edge of the bathtub.
As the water ripped her lungs bloody red and bruised,
she faltered, and they filled with cold water.
She grabbed the edge of the bathtub;
she says her skull was pounding (like when he cracked her head on the wall, but worse).
She faltered, and as her lungs filled with cold water,
she loosened her grip on the bathtub.
Her skull was pounding (like when he cracked her head on the wall, but worse);
tension fled from her body, and
she loosened her grip on the bathtub,
as a firework display shattered the blackness behind her eyes.
She says the tension fled from her body,
that her throat was raw, burning, and full of water,
and a firework display had shattered the blackness behind her eyes.
She says he relaxed his vice grip on her neck.
Her throat was raw, burning, and full of water, she says,
but she threw her head back, cracking his nose wide open,
and he relaxed his vice grip on her neck.
His nose a geyser spitting blood, she escaped.
She says she threw her head back, cracking his nose wide open,
she flailed her arms, trying to find something to grasp,
and with his nose a geyser spitting blood, she escaped.
Remember the day her boyfriend tried to drown her?
@waxfruit
all i want is to express my self in a healthy way, that also furfills all of my dreams and desires, is that too much to ask for?? really??? maybe, yes. maybe it is. i know that in real life I have to work for and at things i want to aspire to be, i know nothing is eazy so why do i expect it to be? i keep living in this wierd dreamworld that only consists of me imagining all of my potentiel being used for something, meanwhile all of the time when it doesn't, all of the time when it is wasted i blame myself for ruining my future and my life.
-- so this is really messy, filled with spelling errors and stuff, but pretty fun excercise none the less.
