Mothers, I Celebrate You

The workaholic
Who never has enough sleep
Cares for everyone

Undeniable
My gift to you is this love
Your existence saves

Mothers, God bless you
You bloom when we all wither
Weeping willows sing


Happy Mother’s Day to those of you who are mothers, those of you mothering others who are not your own, caretakers and rescuers and do-gooders. Thank you for who you are and what you do. I celebrate you.

That Awkward Saturday Morning Smell You’re Not Supposed To Talk About

Photo by オム via ReShot

Flash Fiction

Chris sat on his balcony engulfed by the Saturday morning breeze—eyes bounced back and forth—blazing on a blunt the size of a sausage link. He had a uniquely relaxed smile plastered on his face. As he inhaled a toke, he exhaled the stress from the prior week. Working in IT had its perks, but he was becoming at odds with his current position.

His neighbors, he thought, would surely report him as soon as they smelled the smoke slowly slithering further down each floor. Saturday was his kickback and take no shit day. It had been the day to forget the troubles of the past week and move forward into the coming one with a rational mind and a happy heart. He almost always did this after his early morning smoking session. 

His roommate was a flighty bartender who worked late nights and slept until 2 pm every day. No harm. No foul. Who really had the balls to tell the property manager on a grown-ass man? Everyone was too busy living their lives, trying to keep their heads above water, and steer clear of each other as best as they could. He was one of those people. Wasn’t everyone else?

He’d often lose himself there on the balcony—drifting off to the ocean—one of his favorite places to be. He grew up in San Francisco and spent at least six years in Tampa, Florida. He was no stranger to the open waters. It was where he could be his most vulnerable self. He worked through many problems while moving his naked feet through the sand on various beaches—maneuvered through life accordingly without flouncing and losing his sense of self.

He deserved every Saturday morning smoking session he engaged in—earned it! The sun sashayed into his view, opened up its eyes, and pressed its rays onto his balcony. He closed his eyes, took another toke, and blew the smoke from his mouth as quickly as he inhaled it. 

Who really had the balls to tell the property manager on a grown-ass man? Everyone was too busy living their lives, trying to keep their heads above water, and steer clear of each other as best as they could. He was one of those people. Wasn’t everyone else?

Really, who?


Originally published via Simily.

NaPoWriMo #9

E-RSVP

had an E-Vite for a hybrid
baby shower to which I
E-RSVP’d for the virtual login
option.

However, work is
offering overtime and time
and a half plus other incentives
and the inevitability of a
significant amount of extra coins
just seems so much better than
me fake-smiling and ooh-ahhing
to the passing around of
baby things I’ll never touch.

it was odd . . . E-cancelling
my E-RSVP, but I have life
riding me like the hag,
and having a lovely nest egg
to feed it is simply the
better choice.

Homegoing

Chrissy and I. I must’ve been about five years old in this photo.

there was a light
within you–touched
others, breathed new life
into them. they felt it,
always.

people from miles upon
miles away, unlinked but
linked by you–by who
you were.
your gift had been in
every breath you took.

your sheer existence was life.

and when many gather to
compliment a soul, and everything
said is positive, this speaks
volumes.
it’s who you were.
it’s who I knew and love,
and so many others too.

so, you are going home now . . .
this is where I leave you–
it’s where I lay a final
kiss on your cheek, a
last tight hug, and words
left unspoken, shared.

until we meet again
in the beyond past the
beyond, I will greet you
with a smile on
my face, and love in my heart
because every bit of
you had been a present
to unwrap and give to
someone else.

I blow out a candle for
your physical body
will find its way beneath six
feet of dirt and clay,
but your spirit . . .

your spirit lives on.