These three words always set the mood for pondering, don’t they? Immediately we think of a famous, well beloved general lying on his deathbed, encouraging his soldiers to be stalwart with his last breath. Or maybe it conjures up sad romantic endings in your mind. The lovers parting at an airport, rain pounding the pavement, and he whispers out “We’ll always have Paris”. Damn. How am I ever going to get to see Paris if this old guy still has it? Stingy. But what are you supposed to call all the other words? All the funny sayings in between the long goodbye and the last goodbye? Take for instance my niece. She’s a beautiful young woman now, gorgeous, funny, kind, silly. She is interesting and curious and sweet. And yet she has so many good little sayings that I repeat in my head often, because they make me laugh. Like the time she was in the locker room with her mom after they’d had swimming lessons. She was probably only three at the time, and as they took off their swim suits, she looked up and said in a funny little frowny voice, “Them you’re boobs or sumpin?” She did very much want to be a cowboy at that age. Or a football player. Or ballerina. Then there was the time she was half scolding her younger sister. This might have been at the ripe old age six, when younger sister was asking about the difference between boy hardware and girl hardware. She was conspiratorial as she said to her mother, “Whew, it’s a good thing she didn’t use the F word.” “Hmmm,” said mom, curiosity getting the better of her, “and what word would that be?” “Fagina”. Ahhh, the stuff stupid sitcoms are made of, only funny. Funny enough that I tell all my co-workers this little story as often as I can, and sometimes total strangers. Like you. Because this is hilarious! But certainly not her last words. So what do I call these little, hilarious sayings I am bound to quote a thousand times before I die? “Famous last words of a child?” No, child isn’t dead. That sounds like the child is dead and those were the last words before death. “Funny words of a child?” No, that’s just stupid. Kids say the darnedest things sums that up better, and obviously that has been taken. Wait, some of you might be too young to know that was a famous book and I believe a TV series back in the day of black and white TV. Yes, television used to be black and white. God, didn’t you ever even look at your schoolbooks? Oh well, I guess I’ll have to work on this and come up with something unique and witty. Any suggestions?
i don’t know how to do this.
i don’t know how to open myself up, and leave my heart out for people, when i’m just not sure of the outcome. although that statement is pretty ironic, considering i’m sharing my soul to complete strangers who don’t know me, and likely don’t care.
i know that it’s what people have done for a millennia; give their hearts away, to lovers and friends, only to have their hearts dashed on the rocks or squished like grapes being made for wine.
and sometimes that’s how i feel it is for me. that the bigger purpose in life, humanity as a whole, is so much more important than my tiny life. that i am the grape. and the juice flows out of me, spills from my skin, just to feed all of mankind a thimble of wine. but am i only the juice? isn’t there more for ME as an individual? i’d like to hope so…but i’m wary.
i’ve spent my whole life hiding myself from people. it was a necessary part of my life, to hide my reality from those around me. my person, my soul has kind of been on the lam for forever. worried about people learning the truth about me, my dark secrets, the skeletons in my closet, the shame that i wear like a scarf around my neck. sometimes i will let out some little part of me, some white flag or token offered to a friend, but i’m always looking for a sign that i must retreat. i’m always ready to pick up my belongings and take to the hills if there is any movement that looks suspicious.
and i guess i’m being challenged right now, and i’m not sure how to proceed. so many situations in my past have made me wall myself up in a tower, like a creepy Edgar Allan Poe kitty in a horror story of love and not love. so i’m used to that, i’m used to the comfort of obliteration. i’m used to not having what i desire or deserve, because i’m too busy spending all my energy hiding my beauty and uniqueness from the world, and don’t see those around me who would actually love me, and treat me well, and honor my life instead of try to destroy it. and here i am now, faced with uncertainty, and fear, and small situations that mean a great deal to me, even if they don’t mean a great deal. and i question motives, and intentions, and actions. i look for hidden information in others, that might reveal to me that i am cared for, or longed for, or sought after. because i can’t always see it, even if it is right in front of me. because i’m used to cutting, not binding. i’m used to running from, not running to. and my soul wants desperately to pick up its skirts and take off at a breakneck speed, and dash away to the safety of my tower, and pull its hair up so that no one can ever follow.
but my heart doesn’t seem to notice. my heart just jumps back in the vat, ready to be trounced again, ready for the wine of life to flow from her veins. and what else can i do, but support the alcoholics of the world with my life essence?