confession: vacations are less expensive than hospital stays (even with good insurance). a reminder to take more vacations.
confession: running away from the feeling you fear only reinforces the fear and makes the feeling grow stronger.
confession: if i let myself believe we could last a long while and rest inside that trust i might live easier or die faster if we fail. you can live and die while walking upright and breathing, with a heart that keeps beating after love has left and few will notice, only the ones that pause to feel the emptiness or aliveness in your laughter, in your smile, in your eyes.
confession: i dream of her and never speak of it.
confession: i’ve finally stopped dreaming of the little souls that once called to me as their mother. i am not their mother. the deciding has been done. they’ve left me. they are gone.
confession: in this long life some will leave and some will stay and i’ve been surprised so many times that i no longer guess at which is which, who is who, and what will be.
confession: of the ones who have stayed, i never could have known he’d love me more and love me better than i love him. i feel guilty, sorry, and regretful for not loving him better, for not loving him more. when i try loving him better, he steadily loves me more and more, always out-loving me some more.
confession: i should have known better. i tell myself that. but obviously i don’t know better since this lesson repeats and i haven’t learned it, because if i had known better i would’ve done it differently this time.
confession: there is no such person as “the one” except for the one you choose or the one who chooses you.
confession: i quit riding motorcycles because if i didn’t i would’ve died on one.
confession: i have no fear of dying in my fast car. its cage keeps me safe and i am grateful for it, but i know many who have died in car accidents. i’ve known several who have died on motorcycles, too. but worse than dying for me would be losing a leg or becoming paralyzed, which happens more often in motorcycle accidents than car accidents.
confession: i think a lot about dying because of the daily choice i make to stay alive.
confession: while washing my dirty feet in his bathtub, my face turned toward the wall, my back angled toward him, i told him something i haven’t told my therapist and he said the things he was supposed to say, the things i already know, the things that don’t make a difference, the things that don’t help, and i don’t know what i expected to happen or how i expected to feel, but telling him was progress, even if telling him didn’t help.
confession: when i walk into a bar and see you but don’t talk to you, it’s only because i don’t have the energy to engage in conversation, not because i don’t like you. i like you more than i like most people. but i can’t answer the first question that is always asked, the “how are you?” question, because i don’t have a desire to lie and in the past couple weeks i dropped the mask that hides the truth. the truth is that in that bar on that sunday afternoon waiting for the poetess to arrive to drink whiskey in honor of the deceased, to make fun of ourselves and the ones we love, to laugh because our dark humor always amuses us, on that day i didn’t have heart to spare to share my truth with you, too. i kept my heart in reserve that anniversary day to hold hers and to hold mine and to hold back tears and let the laughter come in place of tears because over the last many years we’ve cried many tears and together we do well to let the laughter catch up. whiskey helps. laughter helps. knowing what we know about one another, about strength, about grief helps most.