Forty, do your worst.

“I toast my childhood. Upon the alter of youth I offered my trust and hope. An innocent heart that yearned for magic never understood.

I toast my adolescence. Upon the alter of desire I wished for love, willing to sacrifice anything. A stubborn attitude that I fire tempered to opalescence.

I toast my twenties. Upon the alter of pride I poured my blood, sweat, and tears. A willful mind hungry for knowledge and thirsty for opportunities.

I toast my thirties. Upon the alter of maturity I laid bare my devotions to family and future. An unbridled truth devoid of illusions or niceties.

Forty, do your worst. I made my offerings with sheer determination and the power of my convictions. Now, I wait to see what gifts the Fates have dispersed.”

His soliloquy done the man lifted his drink in the air and gave a slight nod in the direction of the clock before throwing back his double. The sound of his glass meeting the wooden table reverberated through the hushed room like a door slamming shut. Slowly the sound rolled back in and the bar went back to normal. Except for the fact that one-by-one each patron caught the man’s eye in acknowledgement.

Birthdays are hard for everyone I guess.

All rights to the owner of the image, who I thank for making available online.

Someone else

I took a long hard appraising look in the mirror. It’s not The Persistence of Memory I tell myself, but it’s different in a hundred tiny ways. Stray strands of white or god-help-me-grey snake through my hair. Fine lines and dark circles surround my eyes in an outline much less flattering than kohl. I am sure it’s me, but if I look away quickly enough it could be someone else.

A woman whose pinched expression cannot hide the dimples in her smile or the annoyance written across her brow.

If I squint I can almost see the person she set out to become. Satisfied. Impactful. Happy. I wonder what would make her laugh hard enough throw her head back and shed a joyful tear. I guess at what could give her pause, make her sit with a moment and let it grow. I theorize what might be her biggest regret. Wondering if she carries it on her sleeve or locked away in her heart.

I hope for that woman, the one who cannot be me.

I want her to know contentment and comfort… but she only smiles when someone is looking.

All rights to ShutterStock

the ability to smile

My name is not important, and honestly neither is my education. I was hired for my people skills. That’s right, all that wonderful student loan debt bought me is a framed piece of paper that doesn’t mean shit according to my job description.

But what I do have is thick skin and the ability to smile even while dealing with angry unreasonable people. A skill I picked up while in the grad school trenches, and it serves me well. That and my innate ability to keep moving forward through sheer willpower and determination.

I work hard. I keep long hours, and I never shy away from responsibilities. Which translates to a never ending “to-do” list. Still I do my part and more, when I can.

All day long I absorb the negativity that leaks into conversations. It sticks to me. It makes me crave dark chocolates, hot showers, and large wine glasses at the end of each day. All in the attempt to soften the edge I am inching towards.

I reach across great divides to chart the path of compromise. The strain tears at my resolve and makes me question each word or turn of phrase I use. It calls into doubt true north on my internal compass. Still I keep moving forward unable to sound the retreat.

I even phrase my suggestions in ways that will make you wonder which of us thought of it first. Drawing a heavy line under the fact that I do not matter in this equation. I am the instrument used to fine tune and recalibrate. I am the means to an end. A solution as essential as breathing, and just as easily taken for granted.

I’m in customer success… You hiring?

As seen on https://www.retently.com/blog/next-employee-customer-success-manager/

I am not the victim

I do not have the right to make choices.

I do not have the option to omit any information.

I do not communicate with non-family members unsupervised.

I do not get to wear my hair long.

I do not leave the house without being properly covered.

I cannot be sad or angry at my situation, because I have caused it.

But… I am not the victim he tells me.

My pyre

I stack the logs, one after another, building a wall, creating my pyre

I fear the flame as I strike a match conscious of the trap but caught in the brier

I accept the burn, finding comfort in the pain ready to be ash, freed in the fire

A moment alone

It was the kind of day where the sun would only shine as it set, casting a pall over the riot of color in the trees. Even the chill which had crept in over night, bringing an anxious demeanor to the squirrels zigzagging over the lawn, could not breathe life into the day. It was as if the day had died. The fields filled with broken corn stalks and dried soy beans only added to the somber tone. Summer was long gone and even the bright patches of Fall could not hide that fact anymore.

She sat quietly with the gray light of the dead day and let her mind turn to horror movies, it was the season was it not. Would she feel more alive if a child walked out of the corn with bright blue eyes or a red ballon drifted by? She doubted it, but a part of her still waited for the goosebump shivers and startled scream as if it were a lifeline.

She was sure people thought her odd, not many walked in graveyards just because or stared at shadows till they took shape, but that wasn’t hers to deal with. That was the concern of others. She just wanted to enjoy the numbing void for awhile before they ruined it all.

Her fingers itched, all sticky and tacky, but it was the sirens that bothered her the most.

She had just wanted a moment alone.

Junior’s Clan

We gathered last night, by firelight in a huddle of sorts, to steel our nerves. Three generations deep we sat and talked and laughed to hold back the dark. If only to remember that the whole remains even if it feels diminished. It was as if we wanted to cement the fact that standing together could represent standing for one another. In that moment there were no tears only strength.

My grandfather might be gone but these are my people.

He was a man. He had Alzheimer’s. He would not have remembered me, but I remember him. To me he was the most imposing man in my childhood, stern but with eyes that could smile when he laughed, and COVID took him.

My you find your way to the tree of knowledge on your way to what comes next.

What do you do with love like that?

He watches her, as he says the words, worried and visibly upset.

“I might have to leave.”

She crinkles her brow as she lays a hand on his arm, “Why? What’s going on?”

“I’m scared.”

Something close to pity flickers across her face, “What are you afraid of?”

“Do you promise you’re not going to die?”

Her hand falls back to her side as she takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to die. I’m healthy and there is no reason to assume that’s changed.” She meets his imploring stare, “I promise.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

She doesn’t even pause, “Of course not. I know you don’t want to hurt me.”

“You know I love you right, no matter what my head says?”

She smiles sadly and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “Of course I do. Do you know I love you?”

“I do.”

She watches him as wipes at his nose and goes quiet. She watches him for nearly a minute.

“I think you should hide the knives.”

I watched…

I watched his mind shatter.

A thousand sharp and unforgiving shards, that cut and tore as they fell, surrounding him. There is no graceful exit. His tender feet, frozen with indecision and fear, cannot bare the weight.

Is he slipping or have I lost him? Either way I’m a captive audience. The active yet unwilling participant in a game of chess I didn’t start. I might not see the checkmate coming but I can feel it.

The pain reads across his face, a map to an empty future filled with anxious worry. A distorted image of twisted tension locked in place. I build my effigy in granite, praying I do not crack, sliding the emotion from my heart just in case he looks.

It’s my job to assemble the broken pieces but the image isn’t right. A fuzzy picture smudged with blood and streaked with tears. I squint and strain to bring reality back into focus for us both, but mostly just for him.

With foundation rotted and supports unhinged I’m still building our house of cards. I’ve lost track of the white rabbit but I’m pretty sure the time is late. The pills haven’t done anything at all, and he can’t or won’t sleep easily tonight.

It’s shallow water, and I’m drowning, not that that will slow me down. Holding on is all that’s left. So I cling to his shattered being even though it’s gotten hard. Mind of glass or filled with sand, either one could slip through my tenuous grasp.

But I’m still here, watching him, as time runs out.

Caught

The loop was endless perfection, no beginning, no end. It just was. No one questioned it anymore. No one kept count of the days, weeks, or years just the minutes. Just the long seemingly endless seconds.

Those we kept.

While it was pointless that everyone still had a clock even if they didn’t have a calendar. It was interesting to think back to the moment when the days, already so blurred and hazy, went away. But moments were all that was left. Of course we all remembered the scourge and the riots. The starting point, however, had faded into the loop when it got worse not better.

What power lies in a date that doesn’t in a moment? When we lost the historians to current events no one even bothered asking that hard question. Who had the time? We were busy fighting for each moment holding on by our fingernails daring the sunrise to come.

And it isn’t over. And the rule of the loop is, it doesn’t end. But I’ve been keeping track and hoarding time.

The loop wasn’t movement, that was the lie, and it will work till someone looks up and rubs the blinders from their eyes. It only survives if we stop looking.

So now it’s time to put the x-ray specs on. To cut out the rot and flatten the curve.

Together we can break this wheel and finally feel the winds of progress upon our brow.