Family

I sit here on her purple bedspread wrapped up in a pink, fuzzy blanket.
We walked in the door and a glass of wine was poured.
They met me at the airport with anxious, waiting faces.
They were patient while I got my bag at baggage claim.
We drove admiring the city lights,
To their home that feels like my home.
We all look alike;
Bright eyes, high cheek bones, freckles.
In her room with a poster on the wall reading: I Love Ben
I sit knowing we will forever be connected.
I do not know them yet they are family.
Sitting here, wrapped up in a pink, fuzzy blanket,
This is not my life and I am in it.

  

I want...

To be
where they dance in the streets, this town it is so dull.

To laugh
on a street corner, who cares if they all think I'm mad.

To wear wild pants
because they brighten everyone's day.

To kiss the feet
of a bronze statue.

To die
knowing I've done the best I could.

To live
not mere to surviving but thriving.

To question
the information I've been told, there's no telling what I might find.

To untie
those knots, pull out those hooks, and run into the arms of God.

To cry
without shame.

To smile
and not have my innocence taken away.

To write
whatever I want.

To believe
that I am whole, complete and perfect already,

and so are you.

Inspired by forks. Or maybe spoons...

I ate my salad with a spoon on my dinner break.

Such convenience as a fork—

What luxury.

What if we all posed our left hands the task of eating

Salad with a spoon

Or soup with a fork?

Would the food taste that much better

Or would frustration bitter the taste

Of olive oil and herbs?

I’m not perfect.

I forget my forks at home.

I trip over cracks in the sidewalk.

These façades we wear,

These masks of false control  

And Independence;

There’s a break in the rational of the universe:

Eight-hour days, five days a week, no sick pay

No vacation pay, two holidays a year without bonuses.

There’s a gap in the reality of it all 

I work in a high-end bakery and I love my job.

Customer service is something of an art form
After all, it's the business of people we're talking about.

We put on a dinner party at 6am
Seven days a week.

Outside the parking lot is slick with ice and snow.
Inside, the spell of fresh chocolate glaze donuts satiates my nose.

Then there are the delicately pink Parisian macaroons filled with raspberry jam.
The dark chocolate covered marshmallows that are as big as my palm.

Croissants, galettes, gougère, cookies, tarts, pies to fill your mouth. 

Why might someone buy a sweet treat anyway? 

I hand out smiles and pleases and thank yous. 

I receive cash, cards, thanks, and the occasional sincere smile

Usually from children and those with no other agenda but to 

Indulge their confectionary desires.

Smiles come easy when needs are being met.

Pleasures erase those hard lines made by the word "No." 

I am a conductor for a symphony of sugar and souls. 

A gracious gift. 

The Need For Touch

The need to be acknowledged—

Like a child,

The necessity for touch never diminishes.

Craving intimate affection

Like a fly on shit;

We cannot help ourselves.

BE WITH ME!

Their language screams.

Palms face up.

I hold them,

In the roundness of my heart,

With the firmness of my eyes.

LISTEN TO ME!

Their language urges.

I’m here, I whisper

To their sensibility.

I listen with my mouth shut.

The longing to be recognized

Is overwhelming

At times.

Even those who

Are fully trained and

Qualified cannot do justice

To this business of listening.

Attention is left to those of us

Who have unoccupied points

Between our hearts and God.

And what then, when you sit there

Across from me,

And

“I love you” slips out?

Because I know it is not love.

It is gratitude for being witnessed.

It is thank you for being listened to.

It is recognition of Need

And my ability to hold space for our

Experience of intimacy to show up in.            

I sit very still

Listening.