Tag: love

Countdown to Texas

    Four days to Texas
    Amarillo bound
    Can’t wait to see my baby
    When I hit that dusty ground.

    Goin’ home, after years gone by
    Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
    Tears of joy and happiness
    When my baby’s by my side.
    Goin’ home.

    Three days to Texas
    I can feel it drawing near
    Like a hot blast of air
    And a cold Budweiser beer.

    Goin’ home, after years gone by
    Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
    Tears of joy and happiness
    When my baby’s by my side.
    Goin’ home.

    Two more days to Texas
    Amarillo here I come
    Where the air smells of cattle
    And cowboys get work done.

    Goin’ home, after years gone by
    Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
    Tears of joy and happiness
    When my baby’s by my side.
    Goin’ home.

    One last day to Texas
    Back to my country roots
    I’ll put aside my flip flops
    And don my old black boots.

    Goin’ home, after years gone by
    Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
    Tears of joy and happiness
    When my baby’s by my side.
    Goin’ home.

    And now the wheels are touching
    a runway on the plains
    broad prairie sweeps around me
    It’s different, but the same.

    I’m home, after years gone by
    I’m home, tears start to fall
    In my baby’s arms I’ve finally found
    My home.

     

    Palo Duro Canyon–a must visit in the Texas panhandle
      
    Historic Route 66 runs through Amarillo
       

    Pregnant with Death

    In the last trimesters of my two pregnancies my mind and body went into high states of anticipation. Physically I was full of child, round and healthy, a walking, talking, glowing clichè. Who cared that we were young and totally unprepared? My body was saying, “Let’s do this!”

    Not me.

    Mentally I went into the hormone zone. At night I dreamt of having twins or triplets, and literally juggling them (even though I can barely handle more than one bag in real life without dropping it) or forgetting they existed at all until learning they were grown without having ever known me. Gotta love those pregnancy hormones.

    Recently I began noticing a parallel between my late term pregnancy time and my current existence. You see every night before I closed my eyes to sleep back then I’d think, “What if this is the night I go into labor?”

    Now, as I near sixty, I sometimes wonder at bedtime, “What if this is the night I die?” It’s not as morbid as it sounds. I’m a healthy woman. I sleep well and eat a reasonably nutritious diet. After my bout with early stage breast cancer I am religious about having regular mammograms and other preventative medical exams.

    But it’s as if I’ve become pregnant with death. 

    I’m past those years of thinking I am invincible. I’ve lost friends who seemed full of life and possibility. I was with both of my parents as they died, and I was struck by just how effortless the final step was. They’d both suffered the indignities of long, painful illnesses, but when death finally came for them there was a release and a relief.

    So sometimes at night the anticipatory thought comes to me. “What if this is it? What if this is the night I die?”

    I say my prayers as always, for forgiveness, for the health and well-being of my family, for an end to wars, for any friends who’ve requested prayers, and I always end with a thank you. Because if I’m to go I want gratitude to be my final thought.

    In the end I guess we are all “pregnant with death” and life is too precious to spend even a moment on dramas that separate families and friends. So forgive. And then forgive again. 

    I’m not a big Max Lucado fan, but this I agree with.
     
    Peace, people

    If I leave tonight
    my spirit will stay with you
    I’ll love you always.

    Red Stapler

    a photo of you
    sits next to a red stapler
    on top of my desk.

    every morning
    i touch my lips to your lips
    captured under glass.

    it’s a cold, spare kiss
    no warmth exchanged in the act;
    only memories.

      

    Sherry Baby

    No songs are written
    with my name, my face in mind;
    no melody mine.

    Sharona, Sherry,
    Donna, and Paula as well
    have been someone’s muse.

    I’m just a songless
    woman in a song-filled world;
    I could change my name.

    a different perspective:

     
    http://youtu.be/gNeeu6_e6oQ
    Ritchie Valens’ Donna.

    Below: eight of the top songs with a woman’s name in the title 

    Maggie Mae is my favorite. Couldn’t we substitute my name? “Oh Nana I couldn’t have tried anymore.”

    In response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: If you could have a guarantee that one specific person was reading your blog who would it be? What would you say to them?

    I’m awfully good at flippant remarks, and so very many rushed to mind when I first read this prompt. For once instead of just blurting out a quick answer, I took a deep breath and thought. And thought. Then I thought some more. I thought so long that several daily prompts came and went, and I was still thinking.

    Finally I decided.

    Mom, 

    I miss you. I think you would have enjoyed my blog. Heck, you’d have had one yourself. You’d have never thought your writing was good enough, but you’d have continued writing just the same. I get that from you. 

    I hope you can read between the lines of my posts and see just how much I still love you and how much of you lives on in me.

    With love,

    Leslie

    Recall Haiku

    can you remember
    that time we danced through the night?
    no? neither do I.

      
    wear a reminder
    on your left hand ring finger
    of all we’ve been through.

      
    i cannot recall
    the last time you held me close
    perhaps i am old.

      

    Mother’s Day

    I have beautiful memories of Freida Hall, the woman who wiped my snotty nose, cleaned out my grungy ears, and made sure I always wore clean underwear. Glamorous roles, indeed.

    Isn’t that what being a mother is about,  though? Taking on those tough jobs that nobody else wants to do: Getting up at midnight and two and four and six with a newborn who can’t settle into a schedule, or with a two year old who just wants to have a cuddle and a bit of comfort, or with a 16-year-old whose boyfriend had just broken up with her?

    It’s about doing the tough love stuff when necessary–sniffing out the truth instead of believing every word her beloved child tells her. It’s about holding that child accountable for wrongdoing, and then holding her close and letting her know she’s still loved.

    I’d love nothing more at this moment than to be able to tell my mom how much I loved her and how much she meant to me. I’d say:

    Thanks Mommy for all of those unglamorous acts you performed, for all the wiped noses and bums, all the scrubbed faces and ears. 

    Thanks for all the times you stayed up with me, cuddled me, held my hand, cooled my fevered brow, and listened to my teenaged angst. 

    Thanks for teaching my brothers and me to be responsible adults through example and discipline and tough love.

    Thanks, Mom. I love you and miss you every day.

       
     

    Peace, people. Life’s too precious for anything else.  

    The Family

    Why is the Family
    Important
    In this day and
    Time?

    Family defines us,
    Binds us,
    Cradles us,
    Refines us.

    Family catches us,
    Finds us, and
    Snatches us
    From the brink of
    Nothingness.

    Family shelters us,
    Upholds us,
    Reflects us on
    Life’s stage.

    One who has
    Family is never
    Alone,
    Even if they’d
    Sometimes prefer
    Solitude.

    Flip Flop

    tried to stay the course
    knuckled down and buckled up,
    but life intruded.
      
    but who can’t relate
    to life’s ups, downs, and u-turns?
    just those who’ve not loved.

      

    As if flip flopping
    was not a survival mode
    for our battered souls.

      
    In response to the Daily Post’s daily prompt.

    Cats in My Life

    in response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Menagerie: Do you have animals in your life? If yes, what do they mean to you?

    two cats have i:
    scout,
    my eldest girl
    loves with her whole
    heart.
    i am her favorite, or
    so i like to
    think.
    she chooses to sleep on
    my side of the
    bed much of the time.
    given two laps,
    side by side, most often
    mine
    is the one on which she
    snuggles.
    but scout keeps
    space in her
    heart
    for strangers and
    permits others to
    pet and snuggle her
    close.

    patches,
    my younger kitty
    seldom allows
    affection.
    only with
    trepidation
    does she seek
    human contact
    so completely
    aloof
    is she.
    but when she
    craves affection
    i am the
    center of her
    universe.
    her cold nose
    bumps against my
    arm, code for
    pet me, please!
    and i am
    moved
    for she engages
    no one else, save
    me.

    if my life were to
    end tomorrow
    loving scout
    would soon
    adapt to my
    absence.
    but patches, sweet
    lonely kitty
    would grieve
    the loss of
    her best
    friend.

    if i were to
    lose either
    cat
    i would be
    inconsolable.

     

    scout, miss social register
      
    patches, miss aloof