Emotion Is Truth

My newest shot at creativity!

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 18:20:04 GMT

The Beginning of My Newest Book
Hi, all. I'm starting my new book, and I wanted to introduce the first page of it to you. I'm tentatively calling it "Headlines," but we'll see how that works out. You're invited to join the journey that Abby and I are going to take!

Headlines

As the rain from the thunderstorm pummeled the grass and the azalea bush outside Abby's apartment, she lay in her plush bed and sighed unhappily, even though she loved rain and how it cleared the air and, sometimes, her mind. The bed was a college graduation gift from her grandmother. She couldn't figure out if her grandmother had given her the bed because she expected Abby to sleep, English-degree-jobless, on a continuous basis, or if her grandmother just wanted her to have a place to burrow when she actually had time to sleep. The rest of the furniture in her apartment was spare, shabby, old, and included a television set built in the 1980s that she had grabbed from a thrift store for six bucks. She didn't even have a couch.

She knew that she was going to be late for her shift at the Every-Mart, a grocery store across town from her apartment. The store attracted mainly Rastafarians, barefoot women on WIC, and teenaged boys who were members of various gangs. They usually took in her long, flaxen hair, eyed her ample breasts, and asked her, "What up?," but it was generally a rhetorical question. So this is the kind of job an English degree gets me, she thought miserably as she gave the snooze button on her dusty alarm clock one final tap and threw her legs over the side of the bed, stretching her back as she did so. She hated the one-to-eleven shift that she was frequently scheduled to work. That was what she was scheduled for today. She usually began to tire around eight o' clock, and at that point, smiling at customers and bagging their selections of rosemary, popcorn, deodorant, and frozen pizzas caused her great displeasure. She wondered what people who checked out did with some of their items. For instance, what was the shrunken, elderly man (whose name was Perry, he had once told her as he had come through her line with a loaf of French bread as his purchase), going to do with yogurt and condoms? She had tried not to think about that one. He would always eye her as if she were a crossword puzzle and he was illiterate. Actually, she bore a striking resemblance to Gwyneth Paltrow, despite the breast-size issue.

She stepped into her mildewed shower and made the water as cold as she could stand. She was by no means awake, even though she was up and moving. She shampooed her hair with a fifteen-dollar bottle of shampoo which she knew she couldn't afford, but when she had had her hair trimmed at her favorite salon two weeks before, she had let her stylist talk her into the purchase. "It has jojoba in it," Gia had said. "It's also great for thickening the diameter of your hair." Count me in, Abby thought, knowing that that single bottle of jojoba and its hair-thickening properties would be paid for with two hours worth of work at the grocery store.

A Visit to the Shallow End

Sun, 02 Nov 2008 16:02:40 GMT

Shallow Dish

Creeks aren't all in this world that are shallow.

For example, some women proudly self-polish their size-seven Manolos, have great big diamond rings, 2.3 kids, 4.6 nannies, handsome husbands who should have 'cheater' tattooed on their various appendages, and the luxury of staying home during the day in their McHouses while deciding if their cleaning women need to work on the invisible dust bunnies in the living room or the pictures drawn on the walls by the 2.3 kids.

I, conversely, have the luxury of an adoring and adorable husband, a beautiful wedding ring, one child, and the luxury of writing from home. I like my son's creativity being part of our decor (it can always be painted over when he's older). And dust bunnies? Hell, yeah, we've got those too. AND?

Now, to the point:

On a particularly beautiful February day (read: 65�), I picked my son up from his elementary school and decided we could both use the fresh air of one of the parks in our college town. Winter had been as stuffy as a Republican, and we needed something new to do. So off we went to the park. He and I had both slipped and fallen in the little creek there last year, so a reunion with said park was due. With hopefully no slippage this time.

I found a bench on which to settle myself while still being able to watch Dylan do headstands and hang upside-down from monkey bars underneath the perfect, brilliant, Carolina-blue sky. Dylan is 4'1" and five years old. Imagining grounding him when he's twelve frightens me. I'll never be able to get him into his room: "I'm BIGGER than you, Mom!!" But I digress.

He was playing happily and made a new friend, whose name was also Dylan. The Dylans had mud on their jeans, grass in their hair, and toothy grins. They came. They saw. They chased. They acted five years old.

Meanwhile, a woman sat down next to me on the creaky bench without so much as saying, "Hello," which, I suppose, was fine, because we were complete strangers. She then proceeded to take out her cell phone and have an animated coversation on it with someone about why her Pampered Chef party had been rescheduled and how dreadful it was that it was going to interfere with her scrapbooking conference. What a conflict. I remained silent, eyes trained on the Dylans. I couldn't tell which child was Pampered's, but I had a feeling it was the blond boy in the school uniform who boasted a blindingly white polo-style shirt. The boy, who appeared six-ish, seemed afraid to swing, much less jump into the sandbox. I shrugged and fingered the peace-sign pendant I was wearing. Soaking up the sun hadn't felt this good in years; it was like grace. My Dylan and the other Dylan had, meanwhile, found sticks that they were using as Power Ranger Megazords (play-weapons). "Ka-Pow! Gotcha!" And then they chased each other around in pursuit of eternal Power Ranger glory.

Pampered was still on her phone, grousing about not having a good tan yet (Hello? It's, um, FEBRUARY.), and how her last pedicure had gone all wrong and she had refused to pay the salon for it. "I, like, asked for MAUVE, not PINK! They told me I still had to pay! Can you beLIEVE IT?"

I wanted to offer her a can of Tab. Like, totally.

The Dylans were getting dangerously close to the creek (I still couldn't tell if Dylan No. 2 had a parent present), so I asked Pampered to hold my spot on the bench for me. She was still dishing to her friend on the phone about the injustices of life, but motioned that she'd hold my spot. I got the boys away from the creek, returned to my sunny spot on the bench, and found Pampered to be off the phone. About ten minutes later, a woman our age, if not a few years younger, and about as big around as a grasshopper's leg, saw Pampered. "OH! MY! GAWD!" both squealed. Hugs between the two were exchanged. Grasshopper dumped all of her stuff on the bench (I was beginning to get shoved off, and was not the least bit OK with it, because I'd been there before either of them) and then went reluctantly after her two children. An aside: How can people who are empty inside lug around Louis Vuitton bags literally overflowing with ... nothing? It's a mystery.

Grasshopper: "Don't you HATE it when you get BOTH of them out and they, like, go in opposite directions (Yeah, lady. They're doing it simply to annoy you.)?"

Pampered: "I KNOW! It's such a PAIN."

Grasshopper: "Hey, what's with the two dirty boys up on the top of the jungle gym with the big sticks?"

Pampered: "I don't know, but I hope they don't hurt anyone."

Me: *GRIMACE*

Grasshopper: "I HATE parents who don't pay attention to their kids. Kids like that are the kind that end up shooting up schools. I swear ..."

Me (unable to be silent anymore): "ExCUSE me?"

Grasshopper (disdainfully, because her ring was an eighth of a carat bigger than mine): "I was just telling her that kids who wave sticks like that around and pretend to shoot are just asking to become psychopaths. Parents of kids like that should do something before it's too late!"

Pampered: "I agree."

Me: "What if they're just playing 'Power Rangers?'"

Grasshopper: "You can't know that that's all they're doing. Just watch. When they grow up, they'll take out a whole school!"

Me: "See the strawberry-blond boy?"

Grasshopper: "Oh, yeah, the more aggressive one? Do you know anything about him?"

Me: "He's my child. My son. He's five. He's on the Principal's Honor Roll. And he's playing Megazord with his friend."

Pampered: *grandmotherly tone* "Remind him that he's only playing; not really shooting anyone."

Me: "Do YOU see a round of ammo around here anywhere?!" I was really wishing I had that can of Tab to hand her. Or dump on her.

Grasshopper: "But they're all dirty and muddy and nasty!"

Me: "There's mud on the ground, which I let my child - who's a BOY - play in. Kids are washable. I promise. Let them be boys. And if they didn't get dirty, there wouldn't be anything for you to gripe about cleaning up."

Grasshopper: "Harumph."

Pampered: "Uh-oh, here comes Jared."

Jared: *in tears* "Mommy! I'm sooooo, soooooo sorry! I fell from the bars into the sandbox!"

Pampered (who's going all drill sergeant): "Young man, this means I'm going to have to BLEACH that shirt tonight. Do you understand? When I tell you that you can't get in the dirt, I MEAN it. Do NOT do this again."

Jared (tearfully): "OK, Mommy. I'm really sorry. Can I climb the jungle gym?

Pampered (scans jungle gym for the Dylans): "Yes, but only if you're the only one up there. And do NOT fall again."

And women like this think MY child is going to inflict damage on others? Why can't children be children anymore? Why do they have to speak three languages, be part of every play group in every school zone, and memorize all presidents' names before age 4? Why do shallow, self-centered mothers reproduce multiple times when they clearly cannot stand to care for their first offspring (I had to have surgery, and if I hadn't, I'd have at least three children now)? These kids'll be introducing their nannies as Mom and their moms by their first names at high school graduation.

I let Dylan bring his 'Megazord' home. He and his puppy had a great time playing tug-of-war with it in the backyard. Until Dylan slipped and fell in dog poop. But after I put him in the washing machine and his clothes in the tub, all was fine ...

Weighty Issues

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 10:03:20 GMT

My seven-year-old son yesterday: "Mommy, you're pretty all the time no matter what, even when you're mad at me." OK. As they say, "Out of the mouths of babes." Until my son said that to me, I had almost decided to lipo every single part of my body because working out didn't seem to be doing it. Face? Just a bit of a lift under the chin. Arms? Suck some of the crap out from under the upper arm. Legs? Well, honestly, I've always liked my legs. I used to be a runner, and somehow, my legs have remained pretty much unblemished, but my butt could use a visit to the Hoover shop. It's all about my lack of self-acceptance. I look in the mirror, don't see the anorexic girl of my teens, and say to myself, "FAT COW!!!!!!!!" Mind you, I'm 35, but I know a lot of Nautilized married women with more than one child who are size fours and can slink around in Victoria's Secret's latest thongs with great senses of pride. I'm the type of person I would have looked at in junior high and gone, "She's like, TOTALLY fat." Any size above a 12 meant certain death of self-esteem. I kissed self-esteem goodbye a few miles ago. But, let's review: I exercise. I work hard and play even harder. I had major surgeries beginning in my late twenties, and ending the day before my birthday in 2005. Each one meant tons of bed rest, lots and lots of weight-inducing meds, killer hormone therapy, no movement from my bed, and no activity, save the ton of writing I did in my journal. There's much room to grow, but I'm not going to, since my body has decided to settle on this one weight and hasn't budged in over a year, no matter what I do. I've been through hell, physically. I'm pretty damned lucky that my body is in the shape it's in, after all the horrific things that have been done to it. Besides, no matter how big the bags under my eyes get from writing all night, no matter how smeared my mascara gets from grieving the deaths of those close to me, and no matter how mad I get at myself for making bad coffee, my son still approves. And I have other things going for me. I think. Herewith: Green, big eyes. A good smile. High cheekbones. A chest the poor, late Anna Nicole never could have bought (which is often a blessing AND a curse. If anyone out there wants a transplant, let me know). Naturally strawberry-blonde hair. A particular combination of eclectic, spicy personality traits that no one else could possibly have. Really good skin, thanks in part to genes, and Estee Lauder gets some credit, too. And - oh, yeah - a heart the size of China. And I didn't list the most important thing in the world going for me: my son. After all, he's the best parts of my husband and me put together. And nothing could be better than that. And I have never loved anything or anyone as much as I love him. He's my greatest achievement. And I didn't go wrong there. In fact, I'm sure I prayed hard enough that he was sent from the angels straight to me. So, heavier, thinner, whatever. It's all the story of my life. And it's still being written, even if the book is getting kind of big.

Tue, 25 Apr 2006 20:28:41 GMT

All The True Vows

All the true vows
are secret vows --
the ones we speak out loud
are the ones we break.

There is only one life
you can call your own
and a thousand others
you can call by any name you want.

Hold to the truth you make
every day with your own body,
don't turn your face away.

Hold to your own truth
at the center of the image
you were born with.

Those who do not understand
their destiny will never understand
the friends they have made,
nor the work they have chosen.

Nor the one life that waits
beyond all the others.

By the lake in the wood
in the shadows
you can
whisper that truth
to the quiet reflection
you see in the water.

Whatever you hear from
the water, remember,

It wants to carry
the sound of its truth on your lips.

Remember,
in this place
no one can hear you

And out of the silence
you can make a promise
it will kill you to break.

That way, you'll find
what is real and what is not.

I know what I am saying.
Time almost forsook me
and I looked again.

Seeing my reflection,
I broke a promise
and spoke
for the first time
after all these years

In my own voice,
Before it was too late
to turn my face again.

~ David Whyte ~

Fri, 21 Apr 2006 07:45:06 GMT

Shepherd

You are not the first.
No, you, you are not the first to sleep in
My bed and quench the fires of my thirst
And tell me your love goes deeper than the
Bolt and the screw
Because that is not true.
And your lies are the worst.
Mr. B. and Dr. T. and
The Ph.D.,
They all said the same things to me and I listened.
And I listened, listened
To their
LIES!
LIES!
LIES!
And there were others, too, besides you
and them.
All of you have led me in circles, telling me
We are going somewhere so close that it will feel far away.
Telling me that we can go today.
But it's never OK, and it's never today,
And I hurt and I hurt and I go in circles
And I hurt.
And when I look in your eyes, I realize you're like all
The rest.
Leading me nowhere.
A shepherd: Your disguise.

� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Here Comes Kindergarten!

Sat, 18 Mar 2006 23:33:43 GMT

My little boy, who was once a premie, is going to start KINDERGARTEN on August 21! Watching a part of myself grow up all over again makes me feel young, but realizing my little guy is going to start kindergarten makes me feel a bit OLD!

This pic was taken in mid-March '06. Dylan is turning into a
real ham (and, well, a turkey sometimes, too)!

Wed, 04 Jan 2006 04:20:29 GMT

Sensory Perceptions

Can you see her (she's 17)?
The cuts on her arms from
Crushing through the brush?
The blood running down her legs like a marathon?
The vomit pouring out
As quickly and exact as a cracked egg?

Can you see her (she's 18)?
Can you see what has happened since college began?
Why she acts like she does?
Why she sleeps around now,
Needing control; just a little buzz?

Can you feel her (she's 19)?
Feel her heart beat faster when they kiss her?
Praying, "I hope I like it, just this once,"
Numbing herself to their quickie embraces,
Then racing to trig class right after lunch?

Do you know her?
The girl in America who is date-raped?
The one who appears a slut but
Only wants to believe that "sex" = "liberate?"
Do you know her?

Do you smell her?
The fear rising on the back of her neck
When groups of guys stop talking to check
Her legs, her hair, not to mention her ass, as she runs
From building to building on campus,

Not wanting to miss a class; Vassar was the dream.
The state university was what she got.
A virgin in her wedding bed, the dream.
But instead, at 17, blood, rope burns,
And a few too many clots.

Do you feel her?
Want to hold her?
Tell her she'll be safe with you?
Even though the pain still soaks through
Her as if she's a sponge �

Squeezed and dripping blood,
And as you hold her,
You feel her body shake with the flood
Of wanting to be in control of her own life.
Of wondering if she ever will be.

Of berating herself for going out with him
Fifteen years ago,
Despite her instincts that he would be
Rough, tough, a real wanna-be.
Instead, he tied her down and said,
"Don't say 'no.' It's meant to be. Let's go."

Can you see her now (she's 32)? Can you see her?
Can you see me?

� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

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Sun, 04 Dec 2005 09:19:51 GMT

Home For the Hellidays

Jimmy thinks 'the holidays' are for men with money and prestige. Guys who've never had bipolar disorder (a.k.a. manic-depression), cancer scares, or wives who are constantly late for dinner - "So sorry! I missed the bloody tube!" - because they're being treated for their cases of screaming thighs by the exterminator.

The sodding bug guy, for Christ's sake. Who cheats on you with
a man who wipes out bugs for a living? And what does that say
about you? Jimmy's 35, and he doesn't yet know, even though he's
consulted many a drink for the answer. He's already
been married (and divorced) once: to a gorgeous, twistable,
sexually-incomprehensible, vapid, dark woman who never
made her origins or lineage known to him.

South American or Indian? Yeah.

Bourbon-dependence is beginning to bug him, as is this time of year.
Pissing, sodding Christmas trees. Everywhere he goes, there they are,
asking him to spend his money on shit he has no use for, for people he
has no use for.

The bug guy. And they never had a bug problem in their
flat to start with. Bugs for bourbon. A fair trade, he eventually decided.

His ex-wife was a real Christmas tree: expensive, beautiful, but
fleeting and just too sharp to touch. Faux trees are like his new wife:
straight from the box, full of holes yet sturdy, always blocking the view
from the living-room window, and Made In China.

At least he doesn't have to ask where this one came from.

� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Sat, 11 Jun 2005 06:57:40 GMT

This Way

You sleep between us
When you once slept inside me.
You had a head of peach fuzz,
But now I cut your hair
(the only thing you got from me).
You mumble in your sleep,
Talk to Thomas the Train
And hope that he hears you
(I can't tell you it's in vain).
You don't need me like you did;
You're almost four-and-a-half.
You do things, say things, that always make me laugh.
Daddy's Biggest Helper.
Mommy's Angel Boy.
Our little child who fights off sleep
Though he likes it better
Than any toy.
What do you dream of?
What will you become?
Why do you like trains
And watching them run?
Will you be okay
With being an only child?
Because I wasn't �
I got lonely after a while.
How do we know our decisions are right
When we exhaustedly tuck you into bed each night?
But the joy of not knowing
Is finding a little piece of your puzzle each day,
Of watching you laugh
While you run and play,
Of hearing you say, "Don't go, Mommy! Stay!"
And I fight back sweet tears,
Knowing that it won't always
Be this way.
� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Sat, 11 Jun 2005 06:01:01 GMT

Driving Route 70,
Somewhere in Alabama

He slept the whole way.
We left Tupelo and Elvis and all
The sticky, small-town drunks
And drove.
Just to get away, really, and because he said
He wanted to see more of the South than just his face
In the mirror.
A Van Morrison remnant dripped like old vanilla from the speakers
And I sang with the radio to wake him up,
But he only smiled at a dream's fleeting detail
And grunted.
The Alabama state line didn�t change anything and I drove
In no particular direction with the top down,
And we wound up on Route 70,
Alabama.
I thought about the time I came home and
Discovered that they both liked Bach.
That was a black and buzzing kind of night --
And I decided it was better to have him sleeping here, beside me,
In the squeaky front seat,
Even if he didn't see a thing.

�Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Wed, 25 May 2005 08:17:13 GMT

Healin'

It's
So
Hot in here.

Some-
body
Bring me a beer.

Love this feelin';
I am healin',
Keeps me reelin',

Up all night.
Up all night.
Up all night.

Come on boys,
Bring your toys
But keep your poise

'cause I
Don't belong to anyone
Just want to have some fun.

Don't be stalling;
Night is calling
And I'm falling

In love with
The healing,
My health not stealing

Away, and there's
A resurrection
In my reflection

Up all night.
Up all night.
Up all night.

Wait �
Forget the beer
You weren't here

In my pain
In my pain
In my helplessness.

So I'll
Let you go,
I guess.

My back was
To your front
And you're still

Just a runt
All beefed
Up outside

But couldn't
Take the hellish ride
Across the chasm, far and wide.

I don't want
To reconnect;
You lack respect,

Don't accept
The aspects
Of my depths.

Hot and sweaty,
I am ready
To leave durin' my favorite song

'cause you've been in the shallow end �

For
Too
Damned
Long.

� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Tue, 24 May 2005 22:48:02 GMT

The Horse

You and me, babe, we've lived on both sides of Hell.
Waitin' for that sunny day,
Waitin' for me to get well.

It's a hard, long trip back to us,
Bitterness, agony in the way,
Times we've thought our hearts would rust.

You keep your emotions deep in your vault,
Smilin' on the outside all the way,
But thinkin' this is someone's fault.

You've never worn your feelings on your shirt,
Sure it'd ride out okay,
But that horse, black and strong, still kicks us with hurt.

You wanna kiss my heart, make it better,
Send me a permanent Valentine,
An RX in a love letter.

It ain't that easy to do.
To see me run away
Into myself, hidden from you.

So I guess we're both locked up.
You in your vault, me in my decay,
But maybe one day, we'll escape this round-up.

� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Thu, 19 May 2005 07:00:11 GMT

Over Here (For Doug Holzhauer)
(A New Year's letter for my family)

Let me breathe,
Let me breathe,
I'm scared as hell over here.

Remember me, remember me
Though I'm not there for the New Year.
The grit in my eyes,

The smell of my sweat,
The knowledge my best buddy
Just got shot to death �

Joining up wasn't for this.
It was for money for college,
To help me gain knowledge,

Not to be lying here in this sandpit
With my only lover being fear.
I'm scared as hell over here.

Yeah, I enlisted, but I never thought
This would be part of the deal.
Dubya wants to make Daddy happy,

Even if it means he has to lie, cheat, and steal �
And put our lives on the line
And serve us smoke, death, and sand for meals.

I want to come home, baby.
To you, our house, our girl,
And that shower we own and know so well.

When I'm scared at night,
I think of you
And how that shower together is something we'll do.

I'll come home,
I'll feel clean,
I'll be different; a family man, maybe serene.

But I'll always be tainted on the inside;
I killed my first enemy today.
My buddies said, "Good job, man," but I vomited

And then walked away.
This war - oh, "conflict," sorry -
Just isn't worth dying for.

I keep a picture of you
And a picture of Belle
With me at all times

So that I can tell
What Home looks like,
What it'll be like next year,

When I come Home
And am not the hunted, the haunted.
Baby, I'm scared as hell over here.

� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Wed, 18 May 2005 08:36:43 GMT

Shield

He told her he'd wait �
He'd wait forever.
It wasn't like him
To risk this endeavor.

But she was worth it,
Coal eyes and skin,
And despite what 'they' said,
He still wanted in

To see the world,
The one she saw,
But to do so, 'they' said,
Would be cheating the law.

She left on that Thursday;
Wagon and dust.
And he saw her wave,
Still felt the lust.

In the fields he labored,
Though all was dry.
And every sticky night,
He would wonder why �

Why he loved
A woman so strange;
Of beliefs, convictions,
Who could not be changed.

Sunburned and wistful,
He counted the days
Until she'd return
To help with the hay.

She never came back,
A housegirl, killed.
But every night,
He'd remember that thrill

Of the first time they touched,
Out in the field,
Her searching his face,
Her ebony skin a shield.

� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Sun, 17 Apr 2005 00:59:12 GMT

Our oldest kitty, Bonnie, died today.

She had had
hepatic lipidosis (fatty liver syndrome) for quite a
while, and this last week, she had quit eating and
drinking. She was an angel kitty, and we miss - and
will - miss her so much. Please send love and
white light her way. She's worthy of it. Thank you for
all the joy you brought us, Bon-Bon. We love you.

Thu, 14 Apr 2005 00:21:12 GMT

A Ghost's Kiss

Was that a ghost?
Or was it a kiss
That sent me flying
Over the heads of
The shoppers, the
Cell phones, the
Businessmen, the
Dying? Was it a
Ghost opening my ears
To the chorus of the
World's grief? To the
Crying mothers who
Can't feed their babies,
To the sound of hidden
Eugenics ridding us of "maybes?"
Is it a kiss or a ghost
That wakes me, sharp and quick,
Like the cutting of a roast,
Making my eyes bleed
When I rub them?

� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom

Wed, 13 Apr 2005 06:02:03 GMT

Cat Haiku

1.
The food in my bowl
Is old, and more to the point,
Contains no tuna.

2.
So you want to play.
Will I claw at dancing string?
Your ankle's closer.

3.
There's no dignity
In being sick -- which is why
I don't tell you where.

4.
Seeking solitude,
I am locked in the closet.
For once I need you.

5.
Tiny can, dumped in
Plastic bowl. Presentation,
One star; service: none.

6.
Am I in your way?
You seem to have it backwards:
This pillow's taken.

7.
Your mouth is moving
Up and down, emitting noise;
I've lost interest.

8.
The dog wags his tail,
Seeking approval. See mine?
Different message.

9.
My brain: walnut-sized.
Yours: largest among primates.
Yet, who leaves for work?

10.
Most problems can be
Ignored. The more difficult
Ones can be slept through.

11.
My affection is conditional.
Don't stand up,
It's your lap I love.

12.
Cats can't steal the breath
Of children. But if my tail's
Pulled again, I'll learn.

13.
I don't mind being
Teased any more than you mind
A skin graft or two.

14.
So you call this thing
Your "cat carrier." I call
These my "blades of death."

15.
Toy mice, dancing yarn,
Meowing sounds. I'm convinced:
You're an idiot.

-- Author Unknown --

With Picture of Oskar, the
Brattiest of the Brat Cats!

Mon, 11 Apr 2005 08:04:01 GMT

Dylan and I frequently go
out to the lake together. It's
not very far from our home,
but Dylan has christened the
area "Boondocks Village."

I adore these
pictures of him because
they show his childhood
innocence, beauty, and curiosity.

Dylan is 4!

Mon, 11 Apr 2005 02:36:58 GMT

My little boy, Dylan, turned FOUR
YEARS OLD on April 9!

I can't believe how the time has
flown since he was born.
It was love at first sight.

Sun, 10 Apr 2005 23:25:58 GMT

She Said

Saw Mom when my child was born.
Through sweat, pain, and screaming, "Please, no more!"
She bent over my bed.
"I love you," she said.

Three months pregnant; she left me.
Her body broken, no mind or memory.
Cried and cried.
Why did you die?

Warm summer night,
Tucked in baby with Lovey and night-light.
Sorted through photos in the living room;
In so many, I saw energy zoom.

"That's bizarre.
"I wonder what this, this, and that are."
Shadows, bright circles, and lights galore.
Got a different camera, but still, even more.

Wanted Mom here.
Tears and tears.
Hold me, hold me.
Love me, love me.

You're a grandmother.
I've made an 'other.'
You'd be so proud.
You'd just be so 'wowed.'

Cloudy day. Toddler blinks, points to the sky.
"Angel Grandma," smiles, closes his eyes.
Back to the photos; Try to learn: is my heart being cleansed
By my camera lens?

Research says yes.
By the Universe blessed.
Spirits in some pictures will be,
Bringing love and belief to those like me.

Energy is neither created nor destroyed.
Think about that; run it past Freud.
She'd come to hold me like I'd wanted her to.
And to see her grandson, whom she adores, too.

Pictures continue; a skeptic no longer.
Feel my connection with Mom become stronger.
Know she's safe and always close by,
That we can always come back, once we die.

My little boy crying, sick with the flu.
Wringing my hands, knowing not what to do.
She bent over his bed.
"I love you," she said.

� Rebecca Pilcher Sissom