it feels good

i am blessed, i am blessed, i am blessed, i remind myself as the warmth of the sun brushes against my skin, kissing the girls' cheeks as they play peek-a-boo. behind me sits a bag of grout, another of cement, and nine boxes of yet-to-be-laid tile. this may just be the first moment i have allowed myself to admit this, the light pouring into the room still, blessing.

why is it hard to count them? the good things? david could tell you so so quickly it's not my strong suit. i stir and i wallow and i sulk far too often. it feels good to let the bitterness brew. it feels good to let the anger simmer a bit.

do you ache?

i have this dream, although it didn't feel like a dream at the time...more a not so distant memory. because, in fact, it's incredibly vivid. there was a summer--about five years ago--that i spent at a camp on a lake singing. and i had always loved singing. call it a childhood fantasy, i remember longing to be a singer when i got older, amongst other things of course--ice skater, detective, astronaut, lawyer--but singer was always there, lingering.

when there's a stove in your living room

...and a garbage can to boot. when you were supposed to be moved in before christmas--december the seventeenth to be exact--and you want to pretend that you are alright, that everything is going to be fine. but nothing has a place. and, quite frankly, order and control are the things you cling to, with the tightest of fists.