I stumbled upon forgiveness more than a decade after an acquaintance committed murder-suicide.
My younger sister, my Silver Star, found forgiveness much earlier.
She wrote beautifully about that here.
I hope you’ll read and be moved.
My husband became an assistant director last August.
He’s worked with many directors since then.
I know only one director by name: Bob.
He’s my favorite.
I don’t really have any idea what he does, to be honest.
I don’t know if he’s won or will win any awards.
What I do know is that he’s fast.
If Bob’s directing, chances are I’ll actually see my husband in the evening instead of being three hours asleep when he finally gets home.
I really like seeing my husband.
(I might not always show it, but it’s true!)
Ergo, I like Bob.
Apologies to anyone seeing this twice.
See comments for explanation.
Three years ago, I took my then two-year-old son to Buffy the Vampire Slayer‘s “Sunnydale High.”
A couple of fellow Buffy-loving friends were getting married, and I wanted to make them a special–if not exactly visually stunning–gift.
A row of skinny clothes hung in my mom’s closet through my childhood.
“I’ll wear this when I’m skinny again,” my mom would tell me as she perused potential skinny outfits at the store. “I’m sick of being fat.” She’d that last word as if she was reciting the name of a mortal nemesis from the comics she loved.
I didn’t understand.
Somehow, bewilderingly, she didn’t know it. As if her words weren’t enough, she had a closet full of unwearable clothing that told me so.
I didn’t hate my body when I moved to South Korea after graduating college. Read more…
My mom loved Simon & Garfunkel’s “Cecilia.” It was one of the few songs I didn’t mind her playing over and over.
I’m shopping now. “Cecilia” just came on over the store’s loudspeakers.
I didn’t even realize I was singing along until I heard someone else singing with me.
I looked around, bemused. I didn’t see anyone.
A lady about my age emerged from between nearby aisles with two young kids in tow. She also looked bemused, until we locked eyes and beamed at each other.
She went her way, still humming along. I went mine, smiling but with tears in my eyes.
I wonder if the lady used to sing “Cecilia” with her own mom, and if that’s a little bit of her mom she carries with her.
I don’t know, but oh, how sweet to feel it all.
An acquaintance once told me it was a good thing I had a son.
“You’re not very feminine,” she explained when she saw my puzzled expression. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a daughter.”
I’ve kept a journal since I was eleven or twelve.
My mom read my journal starting when I was eleven or twelve.
I sought out every possible hiding spot in hopes I’d find the one she couldn’t discover; she, knowing me and our house better than I understood, found them all.
I couldn’t admit defeat. Hope compelled me to keep searching for that mystical place of unfindability.
The search became ingrained. We’re talking the kind of ingrained where I instinctively still hide anything and everything containing any journal-like text a full five years after my mom’s death. Because, as you can see from reading my blog at this very moment, my life is shrouded in secrecy.
I recently hid my iPad. Read more…