Writing

If I were someone who used profanity on a regular basis, I believe I would be cursing at least twelve times a day. Yes. Twelve. Twelve seems to be the average number of times my strength is tested throughout the day. Not my patience, not my physical prowess, not my intelligence, but simply the strength I possess that keeps me from breaking into tears.

It's like this. The weekend before the hurricane, I watched friends and colleagues scramble in preparation. I don't mean that they were stocking up on water or batteries or candles (though some of them were responsible while others regretted not taking the prep more seriously), but rather they were scrolling through their little black book.

And so I wonder, which one are you? Are you the one who believes that there is another person walking this earth meant for you and you alone? Are you the one that thinks that God has created another half, just for you, and that you will one day meet this person and suddenly you two will fit together like no other, making you realize that those people before were great, but not right, puzzle pieces that could be finagled together if you cheated a little bit with a bend here or a squeeze there, but it's not the same as when two designated pieces slide in together just so.

Yesterday I went to the doctor for a physical. Seeing as how I have not had insurance for awhile (I know, I know . . .it's on my list of things to do) this was my first “check-up” in awhile. The man was professional, thorough, and friendly, save for his fixation on my color.
Weird, right?

When I cry. When I sob, I sound just like my mother. I look in the mirror and the tears have magnified my eyes, making them less squinty than normal, less Telles-like, and that face in the mirror is a mirror of my mom's. It's moments like these, when I see myself and hear myself gushing pain and heartache, that I feel most like her daughter.
There are few foods as comforting as spaghetti with red sauce, or as filling. Spaghetti fills everything.

My Grandma Betty died on Sunday.
My Grandma Buttsy, who I can envision clearly, puttering around the kitchen, making mashed potatoes and offering me grape soda.
She once made me a popcorn ball the size of a basketball for my birthday.
She had a garden that was so lovely, so tasty, that I thought for sure her gardening genes were so strong they would automatically be passed on to me. Alas . . .my attempts at gardening will never compare to Grandma Betty's.

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