love

I am officially a lone traveler. Even though I came to Argentina by myself, I quickly joined forces with my trusty sidekick Zoe. It was inevitable, considering we live together, work together, and endured some family drama together. And it has been great, I was and am so lucky that Zoe turned out to be such a great gal and friend.
But Tuesday I went to the bus station on my own, purchased my roundtrip ticket to Iguazu, and loaded up early afternoon. Solita, as my traveling neighbor called me; little girl all alone.

Devotion is following your partner while he seeks shelter.
Faith is following the Star.
Grace is a baby.
Peace is the sound of an infant's cry while kings bow down.
Love is the embraces given then and received today.

In movies, the daughter or the granddaughter or the niece walks into the room and sees a perfectly made hospital bed and immediately knows. She sits down on the bed, with her blubbering and her honking stifled by her shuddering hands, and she mourns what has passed. Who has passed. Or maybe the woman rages at the empty room, knocking over IV poles or a lamp, calling out for her lost loved one.

So there is this girl. She comes to the house on Christmas but she doesn't remember why she ever liked coming to the house. It is not warm, it does not have enough walls, and the doors are broken. Broken doors that never stay shut and are always letting in a draft. The walls are grey, like they used to be black but they have faded or are dingy with age. She sits at the dinner table but does not stay seated for too long because she cannot stand the sight of the gluttonous piles of food. Yellow, white, brown, yellow—the piles of food almost touch.

Dear Homeless Man that sits under my work awning,
I gave you a sleeping bag, some snacks, and my friendship for over a year. My co-workers do not believe in your cast and that statement alone bugs me. Ditch the cast if and when you are healed, or don't . . .but promise me you will try to lose the habit. I do not see your wheelchair, Dave, or your cane or your threadbare foot wrap, but I do see your grinding teeth. But, Dave, I also see your eyes and the light that trickles through the cracks.
Thanks for always calling me "pretty lady".

I am a 30 year old girl. I have been a Christian for 21 years, but I often hesitate to use that label because of all that it entails. Sad, but true. But I love God and Jesus, and I love talking about God and life and blessings and miracles and I even like talking about the hypocrisy and judgmental hurt that comes out of the "church". I am a hairstylist, as you probably surmised from my website, and I dream of actually making a living off of writing. I cook. I read. I have two little dogs that I adore, and a family that loves me. I have lived in SF for five years, and I love it here.

My table is gone and I am sad. It seems such a silly state to be in over a piece of furniture, but I am sad and it doesn't feel silly and that is a fact.
The thing is, I did not have a whole lot of time to sit and reflect over all of the memories stained into the wood. The people, those people from down the hill with their precocious Tasmanian devil of a daughter, came and picked it up earlier than planned and I just did not prepare.

“No-one has ever called me that before,” she said.
“Called you what?” he asked.
“Beautiful.”
“Yeah, right. I don't believe that.”
“Seriously. I have never been called beautiful, until tonight. It is always 'nice rack', or 'you have pretty eyes', but I have never been called beautiful. Do you feel me blushing?”

Bill is a man.
Bill is a man I met on an airplane ride to Madrid.
He was on his way to Poland to commemorate the life of his physicist mentor.
He lost his best friend, his mentor, earlier this year, but it turns out this is not the first time he has lost a loved one.
His daughter.
The streets of San Francisco.

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