I know it’s only by God’s hands, a ton of ambition and lots of good loving that we haven’t dropped dead from a fatal dose of exhaustion. Life is constantly on a senior year final’s week dopamine rollercoaster of a ride. Some days I don’t even want to see or touch our bedroom floor . . . *extended sigh* and believe it or not it has nothing to do with the mountains of clean, unfolded clothes populating the 5 foot drop cloth in the farthest corner of our bedroom.

The clean clothes pile up in your space.
We’re tired mostly.
But those nights when I climb into bed and I talk to you for hours on end. I really want to tell you how sorry I am for having your space so
crowded with our untidiness.          Beary sits there.        He waits for you. I feel for Him, He sits in Mommy and Daddy’s mess.
A lot of people wait for you.            Some more patiently than others.
Yesterday I bit the head of anger.
She came again.
I wanted to be bitter, but I thought to myself—maybe this is just our first attempt at playing
a good ole game of Hide-N-Go-Seek.
I will find you.      Maybe in a bed of flowers,      if anything less I shall plant for you a bed of many colors. Plush and ever-forgiving.
Like Beary, waiting. He captures me with those cold glassy eyes. Most days I know I see sadness—maybe He hates the busy clutter he guards;
maybe He remembers too much        who knows? but some days I see light and I know it’s the sight of you He catches.
A chance to tell you of the times Mommy ran away, deep into the neighborhood woods with Him,                   the time they got caught in the rain and Maa had to give Him his first washing that same night

and how His stuffing fell out       and Mommy cried and cried until Didd’a made Maa remove Him and His stuffing from the big green trash can in the kitchen.
—or about the time He moved from the countryside and got to stare out the big windows at the cow-topped mountain peeks when Mommy went off to big people’s school . . . .or maybe the stories of Daddy taking Mommy down by the old train tracks that one time, the one where the numbers  found them.
And how Daddy told Mommy of His life, His transitions . . . of how He found Her eyes.
And the first time She wanted to cry      because with His big beautiful brown eyes said He never wanted any children—yet Beary will probably tell you first—of the time Mommy drove Him, Kobe the curious little kitty and a carload of things to the big busycity to visit Daddy
before the long hot summer back home along the countryside.

The summer Daddy and Mommy
decided to bet all their stardust
on You.

Notes for Paris, Scribbled Across the Walls of Our Home in  Crayon
© 2016 E. English Publishing Group

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