If reincarnation were real I'd find you again. I'd fall in love with you at fourteen again. I'd be smart enough to know a lie from the truth. I'd be strong enough to face all my childhood fears. I'd be brave enough to fight whatever I had to, including myself... and I wouldn't just love you I'd choose you. Every day of my life I'd choose you. I'd choose your children to be mine to read Where The Wild Things Are, while I snuggled them on my lap. I'd watch with so much love and gratitude as you taught our children how to ride a bike, and how to drive a car. I'd choose you on your bad days when you were a little harder to love. I'd choose you at a time I'd spend kneeling at your bedside in a cold, dark hospital room begging God to grant me more days on earth to choose you. I'd choose you every night watching you sleep peacefully. I'd choose you every morning over coffee and cream. I'd choose you when we had steak, but I'd still choose you when all we had were ramen noodles. I'd choose you to help me hold our first grandchild together. I'd choose you to hold hands with and walk from our teens to old age. But reincarnation isn't real so all I can do is choose you now. Every day, I choose you now for whatever that might mean, for all the days and nights I have left. I don't just love you...I choose you.
Daisy chain crowns and dandelion wishes, petals pressed within the pages of a book of love poetry, the last petal proudly proclaiming he loves me indeed, yellowed diary entries faded by time, his name and little hearts drawn in the margin, she practiced writing her name as Mrs. so-and-so, her first name attached to his last, diary entries exclaimed with delight how he actually looked her way, and right at her, just for a second, for reals, thus it must be love, for what could be a more clear sign of true love than such a deliberate glance?
“Beer drinkers…and hell raisers, yeah…uh huh…baby don’t you wanna come with me?” – ZZ Top
I never used to miss Friday or Saturday night at the bar. Wednesday too - "Ladies Night", yanno. I smoked, drank a bit, cussed, and played pool with a Kool menthol lit and hanging from my lips. I danced, with girls, mostly, because the guys wouldn't dance, weaving our way through the smoke clouds as the cover band wailed Van Halen and the Stones. Got in a fight or two, tried to break up a few others. You forget you're five foot nothing and eighty five pounds soaking wet after a few Miller High Lifes. Marriage and motherhood changed things, for a while. The kids got older, I went back now and again for a night out with the girls. It wasn't the same anymore, made me wonder why I ever enjoyed all that nonsense. Did I grow up? Or did I just get old?
Turn the light switch off Cross the room in one big leap Monsters foiled again
There's something about an old weeping willow. Wanna lie underneath hugging my pillow listening to branches sway in the breeze, leaves rustling together in old willow trees. They work like wind chimes, create a whispery tune: "rest...rest..." sighs the willow 'neath a bright summer moon. Makeshift little tent with your branches that weep, you're the perfect place for a weary girl to sleep.
Write or clean was the decision I had to make today. Neither one appealed to me, I really wanted to play. Baby's feeling sick and blue. He doesn't want to talk. Not much else to do now. Too dark to take a walk. Monday, she's a comin', but for me it's just a day. When you don't work or have a car, home is where you stay.
I wish you could see the same things I do each time I turn to look at you. Your hair's much the same and so are your brows. Your nose looks like you've been in a few rows. Your eyes still draw me, it's the same strong chin. Same mouth that breaks into that same ornery grin. I can't tell much difference 'tween the man and the boy. You're still my bratface and a source of my joy.
Floors covered in eggshells are harder to sweep. They slice your bare feet and grow ten layers deep. You have to be quiet so as not to annoy or you're risking the wrath of an overgrown boy. He keeps the floors covered, it's what he does best. He browbeats and screams, never gives it a rest. You have to find courage from deep down inside to escape all the madness and jump off the ride. As soon as you leave him the real fun begins. He stalks and he threatens determined to win. But hang in there, girlfriend, for one day you'll meet the man who will treasure each scar on your feet.
He turns off the interstate onto a dusty two lane 'til he comes to a ghost town bearing the family name. There's not much left but some run down old shacks, a few boarded up shops and some overgrown tracks. His granddaddy's Texaco still sits on the hill twixt the IGA store and the old lumber mill. Not much left of it either a crooked sign in the breeze, couple of rusted out pumps and the old cooler, he sees. Granddad stocked it with Nehis he and his pals drank for free while granddad told tales as each boy took a knee. Tales of monstrous fish and rasslin brown bear which grandma overheard and muttered "I do declare!" He pulled up to the house, climbed rickety old stairs onto the old wooden porch still dotted with chairs. He rubbed dirt off the glass with the heel of his hand, peered through the old window, his face leathered and tanned. The damn mice made a meal of grandma's old rocker, still sitting in the room next to granddad's walker. He tried the doorknob, was surprised when it gave, stepped over the threshold to see what he might save. Up the stairs slowly so as not to fall to his pops' old room at the end of the hall. He swung the door open and stepped back a few years his rheumy old eyes full of nostalgic tears. The room was untouched since pops moved to the bay, just a layer of dust no one's home to wipe away. He gathered up treasures befitting a young boy with a heart full of song and an old man's joy. Blue ribbons for show pigs, trophies for playing ball, trading cards and rocks, Dodgers pennant on the wall. He found an old wooden box, laid pops' things in with care. Didn't matter to him they were worse for the wear. He knew a young boy who'd treasure them the same a grandson with his eyes and the same last name. Back down the stairs still cautious in stride, he placed the box in his car and continued his ride.
I'm ready for flip flops and pedicures I'm ready for campfires and milkshakes I'm ready for baseball and lightning bugs I'm ready for barbecues and cool lakes. Aren't you?