“I think it’s time for you to throw those out.”
It hasn’t been that long, really, since he left for California (god. that’s such a cliche, isn’t it?) and yet it’s been months, maybe even a year, since these feelings started building up inside me. Now that I can say it— “my ex”— I can publicly mourn. Show my sorrow and my regret to the world, rather than stow it away inside me and stew over how wrong it all felt.
But I made those poms— every single one by hand. I sat on planes, in front of movies, alone in an apartment in Tennessee, with friends in Indiana, at photoshoots in LA, twisting and snipping and perfecting these poms. It would be an extreme exaggeration to say I poured my sweat and blood and tears into them, but for drama’s sake (ah, hindsight), I did.
And the colors— I love those colors. Red and teal, yellow and gray— I’d decorate my entire house in those tones. I’m that girl who always proudly declared red my “favorite color”— no pink for me. Am I allowed to still love those colors? Or am I banished to a life of orange, purples— heaven forbid— green? Despite what they represented (a failed union, a deception of my soul), I’m still willing to embrace this bright and cheery color scheme. “A vintage Mexican fiesta”… Should “fiesta” no longer be in my vocabulary?
“I’ll make more,” I replied. “I have more yarn and it’s fun for me… I’ll empty these out and fill it up again with new poms.”
But it’s been days… and the poms are still there. The sad moments— and there were moments where my heart seized up, the sobs escaped without warning, and I put him on a pedestal— are quieting down. Thinking of him makes me feel numb; indifference— that familiar feeling that marked our last few months living under the same roof. At first, I thought seeing him again would be unbearable; now, I know it will feel icky and my heart will sink, but I will get through it and keep plunging on forward.
Inevitably, every remnant of our time together will be purged— but must my poms face a lonely life of wastebins and landfills because for one brief second, they caught the shimmer of string lights and laughter, pelting us like hail and sliding around the dance floor like discarded clown noses and crumpled fall leaves.
Hello. It's me
“Hey!” I yell from my car window to the man sitting on the porch. “How are you?”
I got kicked off my porch today. Yeah, I know it sounds weird, me being kicked off my very own porch.
I move to get a better shot, and the bluebird thinks its funny.
i'm just sitting here in the late morning. the grass is green, but it's an overcast day and clouds are rolling fast. i suspect heavy rains by early afternoon, but the weather channel says there may be hail. it doesn't matter. i can get a few shots in before anything strikes. the event may actually be done by then. i'm not sure. i'm just sitting here right now all by myself. away from the crowd that hasn't shown up, just photographing anything i feel. there's birds and trees and lots of other little things to fill the space. it's just a simple process anymore, filling the void that is. there's even a thin river running by that's right over there. and here's my tree. i didn't see it at first. i'll admit my mind didn't see it at all. i just breezed right by, but as my thoughts were wondering in the spring air, my eyes keep coming back to the sensation standing right there. I just like this tree. it's magical. it's a wizard with hands flying around. but it can't seem to hold on to all of these great ideas. even if none are truly great, they're all its own, and it wants to share them with us -- you and i. so hold onto your seat. we're going for a ride. it's the day i met a magical tree.
The sun is shining. So I am writing.
I can't sleep in the dark anymore.
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