All The Tiny Pieces

Marriage has nothing to do with a raspberry except the way it's all bumpy and fuzzy when you run your fingers over it. When you pop it in your mouth it's so sweet, a kiss, and my tongue rolls around it, not wanting it to melt too fast.


marriage is a raspberry, bumpy and sweet, sometimes falling apart, all the tiny pieces in my hand.

The Beginning Of Us

This heart is a tad dusty and a little out of focus, which happens to love on the best of days.


Yesterday was Valentine's Day which is a funny, mixed-bag holiday for me since it's the day I got married to my first husband. I was a baby, twenty-two, pregnant with my first baby, Jesse, and honestly don't know what I was thinking. It's not like I had to get married. But I did. We did. 


Having Jesse was a no-brainer; she was destined to be an amazing teacher for me, all kids are. But it didn't take me long to realize that marrying her Dad probably wasn't the best idea I'd ever had. I won't go into particulars, at least not today, but suffice to say the whole damn thing got very messy until me and my girl ended up living solo in a skinny railroad flat on Teeter Street where we'd soak in the tub together and make up stories about our smelly, kind neighbors. 


We did okay.


So, yesterday I was flipping through a big, black binder called "The Book", and lo and behold, I opened to the page of sketches (un-revised!) I'd written about different Valentine's Days over the years. It was a warm pocket in the day, reading it out loud to Michael when he came home for lunch. In what's felt like a dusty and out of focus time in our marriage, it was a gift remembering 


the beginning of us.


Valentine's Day 1997
Santa Monica, California


I am greeted by Michael, my new love, at the LAX airport with a dozen roses. He is wearing a denim shirt, his hair is still long, still on his head. No beard. He has an innocent face, big, blue eyes, fair skin. His apartment is filled with red balloons; hearts, lips, I LOVE YOU balloons. He has an ice cream cake that says I dig you, baby!


I am swept away. Take me from my life in Pennsylvania, I think. Except for Jess, don't take me from her. But right now I'm in sunny California where people are long-legged and blonde and everyone is rollerblading with ease in short shorts and small tops. I am short, dark-haired, small-breasted, with a slightly crooked front tooth. I worry that I shouldn't have left Jesse alone with an 18 year old as her "babysitter". Not good parenting. I am across the country, drinking wine. I never drink wine. I am on the beach and driving up the coast to Neptune's Net, to Malibu, where Barbra Streisand lives. We eat shrimp over newspaper and drink cold beer. I am swept away by the ocean, sunset, this courtship. A plane draws a white heart in the sky over the Santa Monica pier. I think it must be just for me, for us. The ferris wheel spins at the boardwalk. Palm trees sway. We walk the streets and go into shops filled with beautiful things. I want beautiful things. I want straight teeth. I want a new life. Someone takes our picture outside the camera shop. Michael is wearing a straw hat. I am wearing the amethyst necklace he had made for me. He has his arm around my shoulder and we're both smiling at the camera/

Chewy

I never thought I'd get another dog after *Che. But then I never thought I'd marry again, either. Not that I'm putting dogs and husbands in the same category. I swear I'm not.


Maybe it was the persuasive essay Claire wrote for school about wanting a dog. Maybe it was just time. Whatever it was, Michael and I began our dog search about three weeks ago. We kept it under wraps from everyone, including Owen, our cat; I'm thinking we should've given him a heads up on this. 


We saw big dogs and little dogs, furry dogs, and skinny dogs. 


Then we found Chewy.


This is Chewy, our new dog. We brought him home yesterday. Claire was completely surprised. Dad too. Owen is holed up in a basket in Dad's closet, muttering under his cat breath. 


Our mantra is Owen and Chewy are best friends. Owen and Chewy are best friends. Try chanting this throughout your day for the next week or so. It might make work more fun. And we could use the help. Chewy is very friendly. He just wants a sniff. But the only dog Owen ever loved, like a best friend, was Che. Now he has to start over with a seven month old puppy? 


Here's the thing:


It was the ears that clinched it. 


*read "Missing Che" (March 16, 2010)

Four Dresses

Claire and I watched Sleeping Beauty last night, the first time in years. We always say the same thing; She doesn't even know his name? How can she marry that guy? 

Earlier in the day, in a synchronistic moment, I found this sketch, written when Claire was three; a time when the two of us hung out, most days, in our own little world.

Four Dresses

Claire wears four dresses, 

layering one over the other.

The purple one, a faded cotton, is torn at the hem. She will not let me mend it.

The nightie, a fairy blue, is flouncy and full. See how it spins, she says, arms out, turning in a patch of morning light, catching glimpses of herself in the teapot cabinet.

The third dress, deep blue, straps wrapped over her shoulders, becomes a cape streaming behind her while she races through the kitchen. She cinches the pink dress around her waist, it has to be tight, she says, looking over her shoulder as the long train sweeps over cherry floors. No panties, no socks. Pink satin slippers, trimmed in gold, scuffed and dirty around the edges, slip easily on her feet. Quietly, she gathers up her dresses in hand, plastic crown on small, round head, and dips into a curtsy.


note to self: follow your bliss

Foot Reflexology

Michael and I were finishing up dinner when he said, "Come with me. We'll clean up after."

I balked at first, feeling the need to clear off the table, fill the dishwasher, wipe the counters.

He took my hand and I trailed after him into the living room. Blankets were spread out on the rug with two green pillows, at opposite ends.

"What's this set-up for?" I asked.

"I thought we'd lie down and put our feet together," he said.

"Okay," I said, "I guess so. I mean, the kitchen is..."

"We'll get it after," he said.

Quietly I resisted. My stomach was too full to lie down and everything was still on the table as if the occupants had vanished out of thin air leaving dirty dishes, sweating glasses, empty shrimp shells, slightly pulled out chairs.

Then I thought, The man has made a bed on the floor, the hell with the dishes!

We stretched out; his head at one end, mine at the other, bottoms of our feet together. We stayed like that for a good twenty minutes, toes kissing, while the evening light spread over the ceiling.