the bearer of unconditional things

I am a writer. I forget that sometimes. And sometimes, I disregard it. During those times, I am empty. Something is missing. My life is lacking.

And then I remember. And it's like I am breathing for the first time. Or like I am breathing after almost drowning. It hurts but it feels good.

I'm in the process of remembering now. I'm in the process of breathing after almost drowning.

The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind. I tried to move forward but instead stumbled over the destroyed speed bumps and exposed potholes. Bumped and bruised, I picked myself up and tried to move forward again, but the road took a sharp turn to the left. I found myself upside down and inside out.

It hadn’t always been this way. At one time, the road was straight and well paved. The streetlights turned on at 7pm every night and directed me on my adventures.
I was content.
And now…Now I felt the world beckoning to me and asking me to leave behind all that I knew. One sign said to turn right, and the next told me happiness was a mere ten miles away. The more attention I paid the signs, the more my thoughts wandered further from my life and closer to the life of a waitress slinging cups of coffee in New York City.



I couldn’t just leave. Ankles swollen. Back aching. Feet kicking my stomach. It held me in place, reminding me that the beckoning world would remain in front of me.



This was what I wanted. I dreamt of screaming babies and giggling toddlers. I longed for feet slamming against the wood floors and endless fights.



And it wasn’t just me. It was him, too. Me and him. A we that had once been everything to me.



It happened. After months of pushing him into the right position and holding my legs over my head. After countless tears shed. After bleeding and hurting and wondering.



When I told him, he kissed me like it was the first time, and he spun me around. My hair flew out behind me, and then we climbed into the car. Windows rolled down and sunshine pouring in. His hand held mine, and he shouted the news for all to hear when we reached the red light in town.



He laughed at the congratulations, at the chorus of honking horns, and then drove us out of town and into the desert. He laid a blanket on the hood of the car and traced letters and numbers and pictures on my stomach.



But now. Now he was stuck. Stopped at the red light in town and looking to the right and then to the left. His fingers gripped the steering wheel, and he refused to press on the gas when the light turned from red to green and then to yellow and then red.



Cars honked behind us. The rolled up windows muffled the sound.



“What do we do?” My voice cracked at the first ‘do.’ I stuffed the tears deep down and swallowed the urge to take the steering wheel from him.



He blinked three times. The light turned green, but he paid no attention.



If only I were driving. But with just four weeks to go, he didn’t want to risk it, so he drove. To the grocery store and Laundromat. And to the doctor.



I sat. Feet pressed to the floorboard. My right foot reaching for an imaginary pedal.



“What do we do?” The light switched to yellow. Four seconds crept by, and the light was again red. “What do we do?”



“I don’t know.” He gritted his teeth. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles going from peach to white. The red crept up his neck and then to his cheeks.



Why had I wanted this? What made this road so appealing to begin with? When all those I knew traveled to unknown cities, why did I chose to stay?



Was it worth it? Any of it? One baby doing well and the other fading away. There were no road signs directing me to the decision. It was just him in the driver’s seat and me in the passenger seat.



He finally blinked. After minutes of wide open eyes and a clenched jaw, he blinked. And then he pressed his foot to the pedal. The car jerked forward.



He went straight. Straight past the general store and the grocery store and the library.



My body moved with every bump. I felt each groove in the road. My stomach lurched when we hit a pothole that hadn’t existed a week ago.



He didn’t slow for the stop signs. The streetlights flickered on, and he turned left and then right. Minutes later, we were back at the stoplight as it turned red.



His hands shook. And then his shoulders. I covered his left hand with mine and then pushed the gear shifter into park. He blinked and then looked at me the way the deer he hit last winter looked at him.



“Let me drive.”



“No.” His voice was firm, and he shook his head.



I squeezed his hand. Two feet kicked my stomach, and I longed to feel the pain of four. “Yes.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and then unbuckled his. He climbed out of the car. We passed without touching and without words.



The light was green as I climbed into the driver’s seat. My stomach pressed the steering wheel, and I moved the seat back. My toes barely grazed the pedals. I shifted from park and into drive, and then I drove away from the town and away from the questions.



I knew I could drive thousands of miles and land in New York City. We would check into a hotel, and I would travel to the room with him. My lips would press to his forehead, and he would collapse onto the bed. With his eyes shut and dreams occupying his mind, I would disappear into the millions of people.



But I wouldn’t drive to New York City. I would follow the road to the next town. I would stop at the hospital and let myself out at the emergency entrance. He would park the car, and I would make the decision alone.



Change would bulldoze the road we traveled. 

the bones are smiling in my body

My husband officially begins his new job on Monday, which means our lives drastically change on Monday. He has to report for work at 5:00am five days a week, which means we will both drag ourselves out of the confines of our warm bed at 4:00am. It's not that he needs me to wake up with him, but this marriage is a partnership. And sometimes this marriage takes extra work and giving up a few extra hours of sleep. I'm not looking forward to the early morning wake up calls, especially since I know at least one of our dogs will just roll over and stretch out over the entire bed. But at the same time, I am excited for the early morning time. I'm excited because I'll have an extra two hours at home in the morning. Two hours to write or to do yoga or to read or to clean or to cuddle with my dogs. I'm excited because I'll be forced to make coffee or tea for myself and my husband. I'm excited because on the weekends when our dogs wake up at 7am it will feel like we got to sleep in. I'm excited because everything is changing with this new chapter in our lives, and for once, I am at peace with all of the changes. Maybe it's because I am finally ready for change. Or maybe it's because, for the first time, it feels like I have slowed down enough to actually allow changes to happen. I'm not exactly sure. What I do know is that I am embracing the changes. And I am refusing to give up. And I am trying new things. And I am loving this new season of our lives. I entered a short story challenge earlier this week. And I won, as in I placed first. All through college I was told that I wasn't really meant for short stories, that my writing was more the style of novels. And I do think that's true. But I allowed those words to keep me in the box of writing only novels. Until this opportunity presented itself and I decided that I might as well give it a try. I'm not going to get overly emotional. I will save that for my husband. But I am going to say this: winning this challenge reminded me of how much I love writing, of the fact that this is what I love, of the fact that this is what I am meant to do. And so, I will at 4:00am and at night. Family of Three I took my first pregnancy test when we lived in that old house on Rory Drive. I teetered on the edge of the bathtub; the test rested on the vanity. The wood floors in the hallway moaned as John paced up and down, up and down. 10 steps one way, a moan, and 10 steps back. Step seven. “Is it done?” He asked. The clock ticked past the fifteen. It’d been five minutes. “No,” I said. Three more steps. The floors moaned, and he turned around. I picked myself off the bathtub. Two steps to the vanity with my eyes closed. And there it was. A solid line and a faint line. I squinted my eyes and brought the stick up to my nose. Two lines. Two lines. Two lines. “How about now?” He stopped after five steps. “Now, yes,” I said. The bathroom door opened. His hands stuffed in his pockets, and he stopped just inside the bathroom. A jingle of tags, claws hitting the floor, and three seconds later, I was in his arms with the test falling to the floor. Rascal sniffed at the test and glanced at me with warm brown eyes. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” John said. He held me tightly, kissed my cheek, and then squeezed me again. My eyes stayed on Rascal. He dipped his head to the floor and picked up the test. He started to back out of the bathroom. “John, Rascal has the test,” I said. John dropped me to the floor. “Rascal,” he warned. Our dog was in the hallway. Five steps, a crash, and then a jingle of tags. John chased after him. I glanced in the mirror. I still looked the same. “Damn dog,” John yelled. The bathtub beckoned me, and I returned to my perch. I didn’t know then how much I would miss my family of three. I didn’t know then that it would be five years, four children, and two dogs until my ankles returned to their normal size. I didn’t know then that it would be another two years until the house on Rory Drive no long stood, and I didn’t know then that at age thirty-five I would be left alone in a 3,300 sq. ft. house on Laurel Lane. If I had known, I would have listened to my heart. If I had known, I would have whistled for Rascal and run out of the house. He would have followed me to the car, and we would have left. I would have had a new family of three. Instead, I teetered on the bathtub. John returned with a slightly bent and chewed pregnancy test. He scooped me up in his arms and kissed me while Rascal licked my legs. I would miss my family of three. Thank you Jasmine. Words can't express my gratitude or surprise. (title from "giggling again for no reason" by alanis morissette)