Sea Glass Mosaic

you.

you are a seaglass mosaic.

don’t be fearful of your imperfections. they are what make you.

i know the resiliency of your skin is being tested. a seemingly never-ending current of depression is sweeping up, splashing the places you’ve reassembled many times.

let the wave reflect your courage rather than shadow your beauty. stand strong. let it wash over you. embrace the tide rather than bracing for it.

your finish will crack. maybe even break. but it’s okay. each crack represents new wisdom and love for life. each break will expose a new facet of your Self.

let sadness rinse away anything unnecessary, leaving only the important pieces.

after the tide, pick up what’s left, rebuild, and glisten in the sun once more.

photo courtesy of Seth Doyle/Stocksnap.io

When a Friendship Burns

After high school, I moved in with the person I considered to be my best friend. She and I had the same blue corduroys, pixie haircuts, and infatuation with Brandon Boyd from Incubus.

We were inseparable. We’d go out dancing three nights a week, get wasted, and take turns vomiting in the bathroom after too many margaritas. We screamed Linkin Park songs as we drove around aimlessly in her little white pickup truck smoking cigarettes. She was my soulmate, the Thelma to my Louise.

During the height of our friendship, we made a promise that if we never found love, we’d be there for each other, no matter what. We thought we’d end up two old kid-less ladies in a flat downtown with one cat and two dogs. We’d be chain smokers with curlers in our hair and sparkles on our cheeks. A couple of cougars on the prowl, we’d hit the bars night after night getting trashed and having fun.

Oh, the dreams we have when we’re young and stupid.

Our wild behavior only managed to last so long, before we ran out of money. When that happened, I regretfully returned home to my parents. She started dating a guy she met at the club, and stopped spending time with me on the dance floor. There were no longer midnight cruises with our favorite rock bands. Instead, she stayed home watching movies with him.

I’ve learned over time that one person cannot be the sole communicator in a friendship. Without taking turns listening and talking, without being there emotionally, there isn’t much left to hold it together.

Our friendship was losing importance to her, and our communication was dwindling. Each time I asked her to hang out, she claimed to already have plans. It was a sign that she didn’t want me as her friend anymore. I kept trying, leaving her message after message, but she stopped returning my calls.

Eventually, I stopped dialing her number.

Cherie Burbach, a friendship expert, says lack of communication is “one of the biggest reasons” why friendships end. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t figure out how to put the pieces back together. Especially after we had already put each other through hell, and made it through without a single burn.

She took boyfriends from me and lied about it. I took jewelry from her and kept it. We fought over who got to wear the neon pink leopard halter almost weekly, and who got the last beer in the fridge every time we were running low. But we always picked the friendship over the fight. Nothing could tear us apart, until we didn’t have that willingness on both ends to communicate anymore.

Then we had nothing.

Today, we both have kids roughly the same age. We’re both married. We both have our version of white picket fence perfection. Our paths have been similar, but in opposite directions.

I wonder if our relationship would have lasted, had she and I had been raised today. If she could have texted me when she didn’t feel like talking, or messaged me on Facebook, would we have been better off? Or would it have only delayed the inevitable? In my heart, I know even in modern times with better access to communication tools, she would have eventually stopped responding.

So many times I’ve sat in front of my computer with a half-typed message to her, asking simple niceties. But my fingers hover over the enter button, never quite ready to reopen that line. We weren’t destined to be forever friends.

Our relationship was like throwing kerosene on a bonfire: it was intense, fun, and full of energy. But a fire like that can only get so crazy, before someone has to suffocate it. 

Maybe after all these years, I don’t want to find my matches.

Photo courtesy of Joshua Earle/Stocksnap.io

Penny for Your Thoughts

A dirty mattress with rusted coils poking through sits propped up like a couch in one corner of the small shack, and a stack of old paperbacks sits in the other. A candle and some matches from a local bar are on top. There is no door, only a blue tarp to block out the wind. And some of the wooden planks of the walls are loose, letting in light between the cracks.

Patty used to squat here, but last week they found her behind Walmart with a needle sticking straight outta her arm. Dead so long she had rigamortis. I’m sorry she’s gone. Patty was a good person with a shit habit. Me too, I guess.

It has been a long road, but now I get methadone at the clinic once a day. I stand in line and get a dose just big enough to keep me from getting sick.

Today I was at my regular spot, asking for change, and each car that drove by just looked right through me. It was like I didn’t exist. I get it, though. We’ve all been approached by someone asking for change. People become numb. I used to be numb, too.

But people out here do exist. We have flesh and blood and souls. Some of us have just run out of luck, and some, like me, have made a couple mistakes along the way.

I sigh and watch a cloud of crystals form in front of my eyes. The chill in my chest is hard to erase in the winter, but I’ll get through.

Other than the mattress and my books, there isn’t room for much else, but at least I’ve got a roof during the colder months this year.

I hear a rustle at my tarp just as the sun begins to dip.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Jan. Mind if I come in?”

“Not much room, but come in,” I say. “I can share the mattress, but leave your drugs outside.” It doesn’t pay to be stingy on the streets. Or anywhere, I guess.

Jan pulls back the tarp, letting in a breeze that bites. The extra weight on her bones makes it hard for her to breathe, and every time she exhales I get a whiff of cigarette smoke and teeth that need a good brushing.

“I found this book on the street today,” she says, tossing a tattered paperback into my lap. “You read, don’t cha?”

“I do. Thank you, Jan,” I say, carefully moving the candle and matches. I add it to the stack with my others, then light the candle for extra light.

“You’re welcome, dear,” she coughs, and nearly brings up a lung. “Thanks for lettin’ me sit with ya” she says. “Most folks don’t want me ‘round cause ‘a my size and all.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” I say, giving her room on the mattress.

“A kind lady bought me a sandwich today,” she holds up the sub wrapped in white paper with green and yellow letters. “Care to share? For your troubles.”

I feel my stomach grumble painfully in response to the mention of food.

“That would be nice,” I say, taking half her sandwich.

Photo courtesy of Gratisography

In the Woods

Your distinguished oak trees shelter me from raging storms, still

the darkness between I fear.

 

Photo courtesy of Artur Rukowski/Unsplash

Ski Lesson

“First toe, then heel.”

The neon green rental skis lay before me, perpendicular to the mountain. Snow had started to fall, and perfect white flakes were landing on them, illuminating each scratch and dent from inexperienced skiers who wore them before me. 

I looked up to my instructor, a tall, slender man named Gunther with reflective sunglasses on. In them I could see myself bent into awkward right angles. I straightened my shoulders, and looked back to the skis. They looked more like big green boats, and I hate the ocean.

It was barely 20 degrees outside, but underneath my brand new ski coat, North Face fleece, and base layer, sweat was gathering at the small of my back. I pulled my goggles over my eyes with mitten-covered hands. My peripheral vision was limited because of the gigantic piece of plastic and foam on my face, and my range of motion was restricted because of all the layers. I pulled down the fleece neck warmer for a dose of oxygen, inhaled the icy air, and returned it to its position over my mouth. After that, I focused on the skis or, more specifically, the scratches on the skis. 

Why did I let my husband talk me into this?

“Toe then heel,” Gunther repeated. “Downhill ski first.” His German accent was thick, reminding me of my mother-in-law. 

Kids less than half my size zoomed around me, first to my front, then to my back. They traversed the mountain easily, back and forth, keeping their skis in a wedge shape. Each of them safely stopped at the bottom, not far from me and Gunther.

Toe. Then heel.

Balancing on my left foot, I picked up my right foot like I was told. The boot weighed at least five pounds. It took some navigating, but after several tries I got the toe of my boot lined up with the binding. I stepped down hard, and heard a click.

“Das ist gut!” he said. “Now your left foot. Dig the edge of your right ski in. Balance. Use your poles for support, right? Toe, then heel.”

I tightened my grip on the ski poles and tried to dig them into the snow. One pole slipped on a patch of ice, and I lost my footing. I fell forward, but my ski instructor caught me by the arm.

“Again,” he said, righting my shoulders. “Das ist easy. Don’t think too much. Just do.”

“Okay,” I said, “just do.” I found my center on my right ski and dug the edge against the mountain. I pressed my left boot in and it clicked. “Yay!” I squealed.

“Cool, right?” Gunther asked. The wrinkles on his face became more pronounced as his mouth stretched into a wide grin. He appeared to be having fun with my lack of experience.

“Yes,” I said. “Very cool.”

“Now, we ski.”

Crap.

* * * * *

I fell eleven times on the bunny slope during that lesson, crossing my tips, turning too fast, or catching the edge of my green boats on ice. Each time, Gunther pulled by the arm to a standing position and told me to try again. 

By the end of my lesson, the weight of the thick fabric against my skin felt like I had dumbbells hanging from my shoulders. Air was getting stuck somewhere in the top half of my lungs, never giving me a full breath. Sweat had pooled inside my mittens. And the muscles in the back of my legs were quivering, but I listened to him. I got back up and kept trying.

This is my fifth year on skis. I don’t use rentals anymore. Instead, I have my own. They are purple and black with silver sparkles. When I strap them on, they are an extension of me. I know exactly how well my edge will catch against the ice, and how quickly I can turn. After lessons with two other instructors and hundreds of runs down the slope, Gunther’s words are the only ones that echo in my head, guiding me down the mountain, and picking me back up when I fall.

Photo courtesy of  Unsplash.

How I Would Like To Remember My Mom

I let the warm grains of sand sift between my fingers and float toward the ocean with the breeze. I’ve never been here, but I know this place well from her stories. I close my eyes and listen to the rhythmic white noise of water colliding with the beach. Filling my lungs with air, I notice the brininess. No wonder she loved it here.

I open my eyes and shade them with the palm of my sweaty hand, watching as the dancing specks of sea glass disappear against the ocean. I imagine each is a moment she lost to cancer. What would today look like with her beside me, if sickness hadn’t taken her so swiftly?

Despite the heat, my arm hair rises like hundreds of tiny waves and blood crashes against my veins. I know she’s been here before, because she’s told me. But I can also feel it.

Maybe she’s here with me now. A cream-colored shell slowly washes up to shore and stops before my feet.  I bend to retrieve it, examine its smooth edges, and toss it in the pink bucket with the others.

Maybe that same sand now floating off to sea once sat beneath her brown legs. I picture her feet stretched out in front of her while she rests under the brazen sun. She’s laughing with friends and casually sipping a rum and Coke (not Pepsi) over ice. Maybe she walked along this very stretch of beach to collect shells as souvenirs, like me.

Beach Mom

I imagine her happy, healthy, and young.

A friend once told me that the beach ends where the ocean starts, but that line isn’t distinct.  There are still bits of water on the sand and bits of sand throughout the ocean.  Maybe that’s life. Maybe our beginning and end are not as abrupt as we think. Maybe there are still bits of her here.

I dust the sand from my hands and blow her a kiss good-bye.

That’s how I’d like to remember her. On a warm beach with a beaming smile and sand beneath her feet.

Before cancer.

Before pain.

Before I lost her.

Photo courtesy of Jakob Owens