I heard once from my therapist husband that boys need to move their bodies to talk about how they feel.
I don’t know if my need to purge had to do with the faux spring that was lurking outside my door or if my ability to clean and organize hit overdrive because of the small space we call home.
I like people, I even like being around them and I really like knowing what’s going on with them but it when it comes down to the question of how do I recharge, the answer is without a doubt BY MYSELF.
Someone finally asked, finally came clean about the real talk that has been surrounding us though we didn’t know it.
The nervous hand wringing of a bride-to-be, the sickening cries of a teenage girl remind me that this life is layered beautiful and violent, heartbreaking and deeply fulfilling.
It seems I am a potty mouth. It only took the princess of potty talk to tell me so.
The therapist walked us through how to listen to hard stories from our children. She said it was easier said than done. We all agreed and laughed.
I have driven across landscapes looking for him. In the middle of the night, across two states, that boy was waiting in the early morning to open the door for me, to pull back the sheets and lay beside me.
My brain that is trying to tell my body to quiet every fight or flight impulse it is having right now because I can feel you breathing over my shoulder and I can hear you mumbling the words to the song you are listening to.
In high school I’d come over to my grandparent’s house on weekend mornings. In college I’d show up a little closer to dark. It didn’t matter though because he always asked if I was hungry and when I was he’d cook me an egg.