Tag: lettinggo

A Death in 2014.

My eyes haven’t let the tears fall. I am afraid that if they do – they would never stop.

It was an extraordinary day. We were high on coca-cola and all you can eat pizza. We gathered our tickets together and traded them for a whoopee cushion, three lollipops, a soldier with a parachute, a ball with Patrick’s face on it (Spongebob’s BFF), a yellow plastic man that sticks to the wall when you throw him, a Styrofoam plane, a hand fan with a butterfly design, and a metallic blue spring.

We stepped onto the landmines late in the evening, The first blow took us by surprise. Bringing us to our knees. Frantic voices, mouths moving, unheard words. The blast blew our eardrums out.

We didn’t need the ability to hear to know that more blasts were coming. Every hurried step triggered another blast.

He was dead.

And that is what it has felt like every day since we found out.

The landmines keep exploding. The shrapnel surrounds us. Cuts into the deepest parts of our hearts.

People keep talking. Smiling. Embracing us.

Life is what it has always been.

Wake up. Pee. Brush your teeth.

Shower. Dry off. Get dressed.

Eat breakfast. Walk to the car.

Start the car. Go to work.

Finish your shift. Go to school.

Life is what it always was.

Landmines keep exploding.

The earth keeps on turning.

Days will turn into weeks.

Weeks will turn into months.

A year will come.

Our hearing might return.

–S.

Missing Someone.

I don’t miss the lying,

but I miss the dying,

of laughter.

I don’t know what it is that you were after,

but it wasn’t me.

I wonder and wonder,

but I still can’t see,

there’s no rhyme or reason,

it just wasn’t meant to be.

–S.

Maybe, Baby.

I used to be a planner. Writing all over calendars. Buying multiple planners. Bucket lists. To-do lists. No spontaneity. Where am I going to be five years from now? I had the answer. 10 years from now? I had that on lock too.

The thing is that life rarely ever goes according to plan, but that’s where the magic happens. That’s where you visit a ghost town. Kiss a man that makes you laugh. Dream a new dream. Go out with a new friend. Dance with your old friends. Find a little black dress. You sing your favorite songs during late night drives. You pick soda instead of salad. Eat out too much. Read too many books. Splurge on a beautiful purse. Spend too much money on make-up. Make the most memories. Do the most living.

You learn from all of the scraped knees and mistakes. You grow.

I think it’s still critical to plan for certain things, but I don’t have everything figured out anymore. And it’s a beautiful feeling. I’m free to do anything and be anyone.

So, I don’t know.

Maybe 10 years from now I’m living in a cabin in Oregon and writing books.

Maybe I have the husband and the 2.5 kids in the two story house.

Maybe I live by the coast and work odd-end jobs.

Maybe I’m a gypsy.

Maybe I’m just me.

–S.

Tombstone.

Grieving you.

Mourning you.

You are not dead.

Grieving you.

Mourning you.

We are dead.

Grieving you.

Mourning you.

You live in my head.

Grieving you.

Mourning you.

You love me in my head.

Grieving you.

Mourning you.

I’ll let you go when I’m dead.

–S.

Soul Talk.

Three years ago.

I’ve always liked to write, especially around my birthdays.

Usually whatever age I turned, I’d write a list of lessons with that number or a list of things I was grateful for.

This year, I didn’t write anything until now because my mind wasn’t in a healthy place.

However, the theme was different – it was 28 truths instead.

I had to really sit down and dig deep for this one. It was truths that I didn’t want to address, but had to in order to change my own narrative.

Some can be changed with simply working towards different, others are going to be more emotional in nature and require forgiveness, healing, and a changing of mindset.

But writing out my truths show me that I’m not done. I’m not stuck. I am capable of changing my life – one truth at a time.

Next, I wrote 28 things that I want to let go of and they all seemed to be false ideas that I’ve been carrying around – about myself and my capabilities.

I’ve always thought of the ocean as a vessel for pain and trauma and grief, but also healing and recharging.

It’s like the ocean holds for you what you need to let go of, so you can be free like the salt water is.

So, I folded up my 28 statements of letting go and dropped them in the salt water and the ocean swallowed them up for me.

Obviously, it’s not as easy as soggy wet printer paper.

But I have intention now.

I’m ready to do the soul work necessary to get to the next level and chapter of my life.

–S.

When my brother turned 9.

2013.

I think even when you turn 36, or 82, or 117, I would still call you baby.

You were born the day before I started eighth grade.

I was worried about which of my best-friends were going to what high school, my whole life ruined and in shambles. How was I ever going to pick where to go?

Mom already told me that she wouldn’t fill out the transfer papers. Do you think I could have forged them?

And then there was you. Little, but big at the same time.

With a head full of brown hair. You peed on the nurse. That’s when I knew you were going to be trouble. You were so…so baby. And I was scared to hold you. What if I hurt you? Or if I didn’t hold you correctly? Or you started crying?

In time, you became my little, but big at the same time best friend.

I think the most important thing that I have learned from your nine years on this earth is just to breath. Life isn’t about marking up a calendar to next year and back of things that need to be done. Life isn’t about constantly making lists. Life is just about living.

Sometimes you take fifteen minutes to say something that could have been said in one sentence, and you remind me of our mother.

Sometimes you get frustrated really easily and shut down, and you remind me of our father.

Sometimes you nod your head to a song you don’t know the lyrics to and you close your eyes, and you remind me of myself.

I know that there will be a day when mom and dad won’t be on earth with us and it’ll just be the two of us. Life won’t always be fort building, ramen making at midnight with melted slices of cheese, waking up to Nerf guns, cannon balls in the pool, ice cold cokes on a summer day, Halo 4 campaigns before going to sleep, Teen Titans at 3 am, or scavenging the refrigerator for two items that are possibly edible together.

People move away. They have their own families. They stop talking. They start again. They love. They get hurt. They love again. They never stop loving. These are also parts of living.

These are things we don’t write on our list or our five-year plan.

I remember when we had to put Whoopie to sleep, I think that was your first real loss.

You lost your best friend. The dog that you’d known since birth. You were eight. For a long time we were worried because you were really sad, and you stopped telling jokes and laughing as often as you used to. Your spirit wasn’t as bright as it had always been.

And then we brought Ringo home a couple months ago, and you didn’t want to tell mom and dad, but you whispered in my ear that it made you sad although you really liked Ringo – he just wasn’t Whoopie.

My heart broke baby.

I want you to know that if I could somehow ensure that a part of you stays innocent forever, I would. That a part of you still cries when Sarah McLaughlin comes on and they show the commercial with the animals. If I could somehow make sure that your heart is always big and always full of love and that you never get tarnished, I would do that for you. Even if it meant sacrificing any amount of happiness of my own. I want you to never be afraid to be yourself. Even if kids laugh. I want you to wear clothes that don’t match, if you want to. I want you to do the robot to a song that the robot ‘shouldn’t’ be done to. I want you to mouth lyrics you don’t even know. I want you to still hug mom and dad and tell them that they are your best friends. I want you to keep laughing. Keep dancing. Keep dreaming. Keep loving. Keep smiling. Keep hoping. Keep wishing. Keep being goofy. Keep telling stories. Keep telling corny jokes. Keep living. It has been an honor to help raise you, to love you, and to take care of you.

I hope you always remember a time when we laughed and played together, and the world seemed a little simpler.

–S.