it’s getting harder to hide these days
i try to remain hidden for the most part
though there are cracks in my walls
and i’m leaking through,
i’ve become an island intentional,
surrounded by sharks,
my blood scent fills the air,
they know i’ve been wounded so they circle
waiting for me to bleed out,
if i could close my eyes and keep them closed
maybe then i could be strong,
but that’s the path that led me here, alone,
unable to feel the wind in my hair
or the sand between my toes,
my hope is gone,
scattered like ashes from a dying fire
yet still i crouch in the corner,
wishing i never believed in anything
wishing that spark would simmer down to nothing
instead of jolting my insides,
keeping me on life support,
still hanging onto that one little thread
for no good reason
Love, truest love, lasts forever ❤
I have a confession to make.
My name is Joanne and I have CommentPhobia. It is too an actual thing, I looked it up!
Ok, I didn’t really look it up, I made it up but I think it’s a real thing, don’t you? Please?
See it’s like this: I went to Catholic School. Also, I’m a middle child. And a girl born under the overly sensitive sign of Cancer plus, I’m Irish.
Mathematics have never been my strong suit but I kinda think that all adds up to one guilty apologetic people-pleasing self-ignoring, well, hell of a woman now that I think about it!
Psst, I’m trying this thing where I make believe I’m confidant and stuff, did it work yet? Hmph. Things take time ok?
This is what happens, I zig-zag.
It isn’t intentional, in fact I wake up every morning ready to take on the world, also known as my To Do list but I have too many balls to juggle so I fumble. And something has to hit the floor when you’ve got too many balls in the air and what winds up suffering in my little world is replying to your comments in anything resembling a timely manner.
Truth: I have nightmares about it. For real.
Because it means so much to me, at a time I need it most, the fact that you take the time out of your own busy day to talk to me is such a gift I treasure, and I truly feel love and gratitude for each and every one of you. Honored is too small a word.
I keep telling myself “tomorrow I’m gonna wake up and reply as I wake up slow with my three cups of tea” but… all the buts show up at the same time, more balls flying my way, so many I lost count.
Then I think “tonight, when I’m cozied under comforting fleece, I’ll do nothing other than reply” and emergencies bust through the walls crashing all over my intentions.
Betcha’d never guess I love talking to you as much as I love writing and reading by my recent behavior, rather, my lack thereof.
I hate excuses.
Especially when they’re coming out of my mouth.
That’s why I’m not gonna give you a list of reasons I haven’t been keeping up. As you may or may not know, I’m coming up on my one year mark writing here on Word Press, at the same time I’m coming up on the one year mark without my Mom.
That’s not an excuse, a reason, it’s just truth.
So why am I babbling about something I haven’t been able to do instead of, oh I don’t know, doing it?
Because my name is Joanne and I am a CommentPhobaholic.
Because I feel dumb replying to comments left previously when it takes me this extra-long amount of time to reply, and I will reply to each and every unanswered comment no matter how long it takes. Nor how dumb I feel.
You know, guilty middle-child Catholic School Irish Cancer. With a temper. Which I’m aiming at myself if I don’t keep my word.
If I say it I mean it.
Except when I don’t but I tag that ‘fiction’.
I guess I just want to say I’m sorry and I am very grateful to you, over there, with the eyes reading this right this very second. Yeah, I’m talking to you, every single one of you. If your eyes are seeing these words, know that I am blessed, because of you.
You have helped me through the most traumatic year of my life, I can’t imagine what the past year would have looked like without you.
I won’t allow myself to imagine that.
I will though, imagine getting up to date with my comments.
If you can imagine it, you can make it so.
you whispered in my ear
telling me we are inevitable because
we just are,
i grinned in return,
positive i heard you wrong over the beat of the band,
wondering how you were able to see the invisible girl,
you claimed me as yours
just to keep me safe from harm and
i smiled and agreed, laughing the whole while,
knowing your warrior instincts kicked in,
as you would never leave a damsel in distress,
even though i’m tough enough to save myself
the flash in your eyes was enough to scare away the riff-raff,
making my heart beat a bit faster, yet not knowing why
you took me by surprise,
unaware that your arms were about to wrap around me,
pulling me closer,
into your leather-clad embrace,
the world melted away when your mouth took mine,
a hint of possession in your kiss
my surrender unmistakable when you made my knees buckle
and i sank into the inevitable
“Mothers hold their children’s hands for just a little while, and their hearts forever”~ Irish proverb ~
Someone much wiser than me recently told me my Mother flows through my veins, that every pump of my heart pushes part of her through my body and my mind, so she will always be with me. Always. It wasn’t until I was a few miles away from Cape May that I began to feel anxious the other day, uneasy almost, as if I’d left something behind when I packed my bags to head north. Which, of course, I had, when I stood alone on the slippery jetties and scattered my Mother’s ashes where she wanted them, in the Atlantic Ocean off Cape May beach.
In the last ten years or so, Mom and I started a new tradition, 2 to 3 visits a year to Cape May, just the two of us. The only rule we had was we had to stay at The Victorian and we had to stay no less than 5 days. We began to think of The Victorian as our home away from home, always warmly welcomed as Mom checked in because I couldn’t stop petting the cat all cozied up on a comfy chair purring away in tandem with the thumping of the dog’s tail. We didn’t even care if we left the room, although we did spend many hours wandering through the most beautiful town in the world. What mattered was the talking. Two best friends talking who just happened to be Mother and Daughter. Those are the times I cherish most.
Everything happens for a reason some say, and I’m still trying to figure out the reason Mother Nature decided Saint Patrick’s Day, the day I planned to bring Mom to her final resting place, was a good day to dump 7 inches of snow in Cape May while leaving the rest of NJ alone.
But I was on a mission.
After a longer than usual drive into howling wind, freezing temperatures, and snow nearly up to my knees in some drifts, I trudged my way, Mom in hand, down to the surf.
I don’t remember ever being so cold and I talked to Mom as we got closer to the waves crashing over the jetties.
My closest friend Shawn came with me so I wouldn’t have to be alone, but since she knows me so well, she understood my need to scatter Mom’s ashes by myself, but in true Best Friend Form, she walked with me to the beach, staying back just a bit so I could say my final goodbyes, just me and Mom, alone together for the last time.
Is there ever enough time to say everything you want to say to someone? Usually we put it off or hope they just know how we feel.
I am so Blessed to have a Mother who taught me to always say ‘I Love You’, so thankful that we never even ended a phone call without saying it to each other, and beyond grateful that the last words we said to each other were “I Love You”.
Is it possible to feel relief and dread at the same time? Relieved that my sweet beautiful Mother is in that good place now, yet dreading each day without her in my life. I will never say goodbye to Mom, I will say until we meet again, I will feel your presence with each breath I take, feel you watching over me as you did all my life.
And most of all, I will love you for the rest of my days, until I see you again.
Rest In Peace, my beautiful Mother.
From Buffy The Vampire Slayer ~ The Body
Anya (crying): But I don’t understand! I don’t understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she’s, there’s just a body, and I don’t understand why she just can’t get back in it and not be dead anymore! It’s stupid! It’s mortal and stupid! And, and Xander’s crying and not talking, and, and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well Joyce will never have any more fruit punch, ever, and she’ll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why. (She puts her hand over her face, crying.)
My own version of the yellow brick road, where life is magical and anything is possible.
sometimes out of nowhere
there’s that tingle along my spine,
it shoots up quick like a volcanic eruption
zips through my veins till it settles down low
electromagnetic pulse in that one spot
and i wonder to myself if you felt it too,
at that very same moment in time
because the zap’s too strong for me alone,
before i know it i’m slipping into a pool of lava,
hot and flowing in all directions
waiting breathless for those urgently needed words
real or imagined,
they have the same outcome,
like the flash of a camera exploding in my eyes
leaving everything shiny
and me at your mercy
happy for it
in case you weren’t sure
wherever i am,
you surround me
interwoven threads of uncommon commonality
that sameness at the core makes it so,
see, no length of miles,
no twisted string tangled in knots in all the wrong places,
not a thing strong enough able to break this tie that binds
because i stretch,
as far as i can then further still,
and you soothe the beasts i carry,
squash them like blood-sucking mosquitos
till i’m whole again,
if i told you that you save me always
perhaps you’d think it’s just another day at the office,
because the best superheroes never tally up their saves,
but in the deepest dark,
when doubt tries to whisper your name,
remember you are embedded in me,
under my skin and branded on my flesh,
invisible strands electric, marking me yours
One little photograph.
And it’s not even a well taken photo, it’s blurry and off-center, nothing that you’d see in a magazine or framed with a pricey tag slapped on the corner of the frame. But this picture is magical.
If you look really, and I mean really close, there is a lifetime of love captured in a microsecond with an impulsive snap of a camera phone.
My Mother, standing on the deck of the Victorian just watching over Cape May.
Standing there, on that very deck just a few steps away from the door to “our” room was a piece of Heaven to Alice Bridget Carey Best, also known as Mom to me.
Ok, sometimes, Maaaaaaaa, and don’t even try to convince me you haven’t used that tone at least once. A day. Probably more.
Last year, the end of March, we got one of our Mother/Daughter always-wanna-see’s, snow in Cape May. It wasn’t a big snowstorm, although for one magical day snowflakes fell, lot’s of them, it was beautiful and perfection as we looked out the window and munched on Fish and Chips from The Pilot House (thanks to the wonderful owners of the Victorian for the recommendation!). It was perfection. Warm and cozy and together.
It’s human nature to look back and think of what we should have done to have avoided a life-changing event, a catastrophe, but the truth is only the Big Man Upstairs knows that stuff. It must be terrible to know all the heartache that inevitably comes, maybe that’s why we’re meant to remain ignorant of the future.
I had no way of knowing that was the last time Mom and I would go to Cape May together.
Little over a week later she had a broken shoulder and she was gone in a flash, like turning off a light switch.
I can’t ever find that switch, although I still find myself reaching for it, but there is one thing I can do and that thing is keep a promise.
told asked me to make sure she was cremated and make sure I took her back to Cape May, the one place in the world she loved most, the place she and I spent countless Mother/Daughter getaways.
Let’s just say there were threats of haunting if I didn’t at least sprinkle some of her ashes into the Atlantic Ocean, more specifically of course, Cape May.
Did you ever have to deal with a five foot two red headed blue-eyed angry Irish ghost? Me neither and I’m not about to find out thank you very much.
Hence the insanity of driving to Cape May tomorrow morning straight into a snowstorm originally meant to hit all of NJ but now, yeah, Cape May.
I hate driving in snow.
But drive I will.
So wish me luck, or better yet, how ’bout we just cancel the snow and get on with Spring.
That’s me-talk for I hate driving in snow, it freaks me out and I’m kinda petrified about the snow the weather folks are scaring me with but I’m on a mission.
I think I’ll pretend I’m Emma Peel and drive to my magical place, where miracles happen and I can always breathe.
A place I know my Mom will always be, watching over Cape May.