January 2012.

Regretfully, I find myself in a similar position as January 2011 – standing sentinel for a dear friend burying a spouse. Though both experiences involve the loss of a beloved, the two situations are as different as night and day - one, an expected and somewhat welcomed passing after an exhausting battle with cancer. The other, a horrific auto accident filled with so much, too much, wrong place/wrong time.

I promise you, I thoroughly understand the luxury of being mostly on the outside looking in. My worries involve receiving flowers and giving hugs and handing out nourishment. My frustrations consist only of how worthless my hands are in that they cannot lay upon my friend’s heart and lift the burden, cannot shove away the weight of the world that is bearing down upon her shoulders. So instead, I use them to pack away her Christmas decorations. No one wants to look at that stuff after the season even under the best of circumstances. How she didn’t take a golf club to the tree before it could be brought down humanely escapes me.

I also work to be invisible. Mute, blind, deaf by choice. A throwback to the respectful child who speaks only when spoken to. We all know words cannot fix a damn thing. Especially the words of someone who may leave the madness for a few hours.

If I’ve learned anything over this past year of loss, it’s that grief is as unique as a fingerprint. And that nothing breaks my heart more than the site of an older father mourning the death of his grown child. Their stillness is unbearable.

I too grieve, for the man whom I once cherished as a friend, for what could’ve been, for frankly, what should’ve been. Mine is a single teardrop in the ocean of sorrow though.

Therefore, I’ll save my crying for the closet. I’ll then dig out that stupid black dress found at the last minute last year and take my place in the all-too-familiar parade.

They’re calling for rain.

I pray the clouds part.

(I’ve turned off the comments for a couple of reasons: 1) I honestly don’t know when I’ll be back, and 2) this is not my story. I’m only bearing witness to things I wish I never had to.)

Drinks, dessert, doorway dance. Experiences of long ago.

Then tonight.

Doors opened, doors held, doors no longer slammed shut.

Teenage wanting wound tight in a stretched and scarred body.

Music, from inside her head, maybe the other room.

… “who’s got their claws in you my friend…into your heart I’ll beat again…”

Tell tale. Who knew it still could.

… “touch your lips just so I know, in your eyes, love, it glows so…I’m bare boned and crazy for you…”

Fingers on buttons, in hair, between lips. 

A giggle, because she knows what’s to come.

Please let the lighting be kind.

… “I’m begging you to forgive me in my haste…”‘

Boots shed. Hands slide.

… “hike up your skirt a little more and show your world to me, in a boy’s dream…”

Eyes close.

She knows she will survive this.

- I wanted to write. Write what, who knows? So I clicked to the Write on Edge ladies who never disappoint. Today was a flash memoir. Ten minutes and three hundred non-fiction words based on one word – “Crash” – but I was itching for fiction, and this fell out. Forgive me my loves.

Now, take your bad self over to Write on Edge, and read much better words from more talented people who follow the rules.

So.

How you doing? Kids treating you well? Weather not too cold?

Good, good.

So.

About that whole NaNoWriMo thing. Well. Here’s the deal. I totally bagged on it.

I know, I know, but let me entertain you with the list of things I did get done in November:

1. Painted dining room Dark Granite. It looks fantastic.

2. Switched out all brass doorknobs to Venetian Bronze. Brought house into new Millennium.

3. Recovered the ’80s plaid curtains in kitchen nook. Husband debating naming his next child after me.

4. Mourned the passing of my Gran.

5. Mourned the passing of an aunt.

6. Continued to mourn the passing of a dear friend.

7. Tried desperately to create a cocoon of love and warmth for my parents as they visited for Thanksgiving.

8. Rocked the hell out of that turkey.

9. Tried desperately to hold up a dear friend as her world implodes.

10. Desired to rock the hell out of that turkey.

11. Had the Christmas tree up before December 1.

12. Hung fun, colorful, tacky lights off the back of the house because I could really use fun, colorful AND tacky right now. Up yours HOA.

13. Bought yet another book about writing.

Number 13 is important because the book is about ending writer’s block. Though as I sat and read the first few paragraphs (that’s all my ADHD-mind will allow these days) I began to realize that “block” is not the word.

“Guilt” feels about right – writer’s guilt.

Yeah.

Writer’s Guilt.

As in, “who the hell am I to think I have any right to indulge in writing?” because that’s what it feels like to my Protestant Work Ethic soul right now. A lark. A fancy. Something an Occupy Wall Street brat would demand while stomping his/her/its foot – “I’m going to write right now because what I have to say is well beyond incredibly important!”

It’s really not.

I apologized to my mom when she asked how the book was coming. I told her it wasn’t. It was crap and schlocky and lightweight with no importance or deep meaning or message that the world seems so desperately in need of right now.

Her answer (roughly) – “Oh, you mean something I would like to read.”

Touché mother.

(note: you may or may not notice I’ve removed the post in memoriam of my Gran. After she stopped crying (nice daughter) my mother asked that it be included in the memorial service bulletin this weekend, after removing the curse words, of course. I’m not sure how Google works and I’m betting most of my relatives don’t as well, but just in case someone gets curious, I don’t want the post up and searchable. I so don’t need their prying eyes. Thank you for all your kind words. They lift me up more than you can know.)

I tripped and hit my head. Therefore, I’m doing this…

Again.

I know.

See you folks Dec. 1.

Until then, I’ll leave you with…

You’re welcome.

If I pinky swear to design my leading man around Paul, do you promise to read my tripe?

XO – Ash

12 hiding in conference room, 3rd flr, nw corner. 3 severely wounded. X-employee Steven Phillips shooting. Hurry.

For this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt, we’re inviting you to truly scare us. Here’s what you’ll need to do: Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters. Your text must elicit or express fear.

Though this initially looks like more of a fiction prompt, we challenge our non-fiction writers to take a stab at it as well. (Stab! Scary!)

- I’m kind of new to this whole texting thing. It never occurred to me that someone might try texting 911 to get help. So I looked it up. New initiative coming from FCC to allow you to text 911, but for now, nope. A quote from the article gave me great pause -

“Today, if a mobile phone user attempts to send even a simple text to 911, it goes nowhere,” Genachowski said. “That’s what happened to the students at Virginia Tech who texted 911 during the terrible shooting several years ago.”

- sorry for the communications lesson as well, but I found that heartbreaking and important to know.

“Mama,” Evan whispers. “Tell me a story about when I was a baby, please.”

I snuggle up behind him on the mattress his father and I once shared and sigh, knowing that what he really means is he wants a story about Before.

“Oh sweet baby boy, it’s late. How ’bout we just say our prayers?”

This time it’s his turn to sigh, “OK Mama.”

As I listen to him thank God for me, for the green beans I managed to sneak from the school garden I once tended, for his Hot Wheels car clutched in his fist, my mind wanders to the days when Michael and I were clueless adults, blissfully ignorant to the misery we would be bequeathing our son by bringing him into this world.

I spoon Evan closer as if I can somehow return him to the safety of my womb.

“Mama?”

“Yes angel.”

“When will Daddy be home?”

In the months since he was led away by men doing their job because Michael chose to do his, I’ve held out hope that we would see him again, but the recent chatter left little doubt of my husband’s fate.

Evan’s spine presses deep into my ribs. Our end is near, so again, I choose to lie.

“I don’t know, sweetheart, but I do know that Daddy is doing everything he can to come back to us. Now close your eyes, and have sweet dreams about that day, OK?”

My arm acts as a pillow as Evan’s breathing eventually mirrors mine. I smooth his hair from his forehead with my free hand. Fingertips linger on the scar their dirty needle left behind – a crude “1″ – the mark of a child paying for the alleged sins of his father.

I close my eyes to dream of Heaven.

This week, we’d like you to write a piece in which a tattoo figures prominently. Fiction or creative non-fiction. There is a lot to think about: why someone would get one, what they chose, when they got it, what message does the tattoo(s) send?

You will have 300 words with which to play. Make sure you edit and adhere to the limit.

300 on the dot baby. Sorry for the dark spin, but #EatTheRich trending on Twitter really gave me pause. For the record, I’m neither part of the 1%, nor the 99.

For far better words, visit my friends and click a link at Write on Edge.

The flinch when ice-cold seat belt meets shoulder blade is quickly dismissed as his mouth finds hers. He tastes of Mountain Dew and Twizzlers and Polo and so much more than flavor of the month.

Muffled comments seep through vents. A random shout of “get a room” temporarily halts their exploration. Discovery resumes with grins and laughter, buttons and zippers. Roommates and secrecy means the darkest spot in the library parking lot and the backseat of a 1984 Oldsmobile must do.

Beads of sweat move along windows and skin. Groans escape from used springs and lips. Overloaded backpacks now ride shotgun with discarded t-shirts and jeans.

Wanting finally, blessedly, collides with taking.

Velour and metal absorb the impact far better than their world ever will.
 This week, I want you to take me there. Where is up to you: Someplace real? Imaginary? From your past? In your future? It can be fiction or creative non-fiction. But make your descriptions so rich that I can’t help but feel like I’m right there.

Close your eyes, paint the picture in your mind, and then use your words to paint it for me.

You have 200 words.

To read FAR better stories, check out Write on Edge, formerly The Red Dress Club.

Most of you guys probably already know I’m the proud mama to two future men. Oldest is turning 9 this weekend, ugh. Youngest is 5 1/2. They share the same parents, a passion for Hot Wheels and an obsession with baked goods, but other than that, they’re just about as polar as you can get.

Oldest is the product of being a first-born to two Virgos. A somewhat anxious people pleaser, I blame myself for his future Paxil bills. He colors in the lines, returns his library books on time and would never dream of mixing plaids with stripes. I once overheard him tell his Dad that “mom should get that” after watching the Wonder File Portable Workstation commercial. He has finally moved past apologizing when he clocks some guy on the soccer field, so the kid might still have a decent future.

On the other hand, Youngest is an I-couldn’t-care-less-about-what-you-think-of-me kind of guy. Usually in a self-confident way, say with a hug, but in more instances than I would like, it can be in a rude way. He’ll play with you if he’s in the mood, but he’s just as content to wander off holding a dialog with one of the voices in his head.

Kind of like me.

My Oldest never displayed this type of independent behavior, and that worried me a great deal back then. Which is why my husband thinks it’s now a laugh riot that I’m stressing over Youngest actually using his creativity and embracing entertaining himself, even when he’s at recess with his kindergarten class.

My worries: I want him to assimilate. I want him to make friends easily. I want him to not draw stares as he lets out a tire-squeal sound-effect when he rounds the corner on the playground.

You know, be a sheep. Just like his brother.

I’m not proud of this fact. At all. I’m actually writing this so that I might exorcise the demons and get the hell over myself. Who am I to want to shove this round peg into a square hole?

I’m his mother who wants his life to be easy, that’s who.

I pray every night that I’m not fucking up these miracles, these incredible souls. Not so much with that wording of course, since I’m thinking He wouldn’t approve, but you get the gist.

However, from this moment further, I’m changing my prayers to “Dear Lord, help me accept my sweet boys just as they are, like all the other good moms I know.”

“P.S. Pretty please tell me it’s not too late.”

I did an odd thing this morning. Well, I guess two odd things since I’m finally writing a post. But the first one was going for a walk, sans Pandora or talk radio blaring in my ears.

I forced myself to be still.

I know, difficult to do while walking, but what I mean is that I forced my brain to be still. I have this very bad habit – I like to revisit worries like a mad woman spinning plates. Like if I don’t give that nagging thought a twirl every other minute or so it will just slip out of my ear and shatter upon the floor.

Not a bad thing when I really think about it.

I fill my head with noise, noise, noise so that I have an excuse not to spin instead of making the conscious choice to simply stop spinning, because right now I have a room full of plates, all with different names and to-dos. It has that repetitive dididi-dididi-dididi-didididadum-dididadum music going faster and faster.

So much noise and motion that I no longer hear myself.

That I don’t hear the silence of my boys being gone.

But best of all, I can’t hear the characters that I once longed to create banging on the gates wondering why they’re not finally being let out to play. I fooled myself into thinking that once I had some “me time,” whatever the hell that means, I would finally be able to write. I find myself now mired down in the “why bothers?” and “too trite” as I watch people around me deal with real problems.

I’m not asking for a pity party or a pick me  up. I’m actually turning off comments, if I can figure out how to do that, just so that I don’t feel quite as guilty if the plate labeled “online friends” slips off its stick and falls to the ground as I begin my search for peace.

Love you guys – Ash

Embracing a milestone, she gathered all remaining rebellion and dyed her hair 2 shades darker than anyone in her world would appreciate.

I feel like the kid who came home from summer-long camp only to discover the house renovated and mom smiling a lot more. The ladies at the Red Dress Club have been busy during my laziness. Go check out Write on Edge. Very cool stuff.

Oh, and this week’s prompt, right up my sloth alley - This week’s assignment will require the fewest number of words ever: we want you to write a story – your choice of topic – as a tweet.

My 140 (actually 136) may or may not be fictional.

It’s good to be back.