Posts in Relationships
How to Eat Dark Chocolate: A Lesson in Living

"Did you know," my friend says, handing me a square of dark chocolate, "there is a special way to eat dark chocolate?"

I hold the thin wafer between my fingers, feel the sticky slickness where it has begun to melt in the warmth of my fingertips.

"You're supposed to smell it first, and then, before you chew, let it rest on your tongue until it's just slightly melted."

I raise the chocolate to my nose, take a deep breath, set it delicately on my tongue, close my mouth.

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Eight Minutes

Eight minutes…eight minutes…eight minutes and he was gone.
He is obviously more present dead than alive.
Solid, stoic, and oppressively kind, he was a young man of few words and gone before the smoke from the gun settled into the grassy lawn.
It was eight minutes from the time he stepped out of his brother’s car (singing, laughing, and joking) to the moment his bloody head hit the floor.

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I told her I wanted more
She brought me a candy bar-----peanuts are not a chocolate delight

I told her I wanted change
She brought me a pair of dice---- pressing dots, I rolled with all my might

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Fair Skies

My mother calls to tell me she has just seen Daddy in the clouds again. I am standing at my front door, saying goodbye to the plumber who has fixed my leaky toilet for the umpteenth time. As I write him a check he tells me the old toilet is past its prime and I laugh and say well I am too and I’m still here. And he laughs right back. Every time we do this.

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Very Afraid

The writing prompt is to write of a time when I was very afraid.  What shall I choose?  When did I start feeling afraid as a child?  When did I realize that something was not right, not safe, with my mother?  Is a "time when I was very afraid" my whole life?  No, because I'm no longer very afraid.  Or maybe I am, actually!  I have certainly found ways to cope with the fear that started early on!  Very afraid.. that word "very" in front of afraid causes me to pause.  What qualifies as very afraid?

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This Winter

I laid in bed most mornings last winter wanting to disappear, imagining what it would be like to just let myself sink from the darkness to the blackness below. One morning, I looked at the Strophalos I wear around my neck and simply said aloud, "Help". That was it. No tears. No drama. No fear. Though the depression was threatening to pull me in deeper, I remained willing to do whatever it took, although I was certain nothing would change, that help for me was not in the cards. 

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Last night while a storm lashed the house, my daughter and I sat up in bed listening to the tree scrape the window and the wind rushing through the street and the sky. She asked me again why her father and I split up two years ago. She said she deserves to know more and that she’s old enough to understand better now. She is nine. I watched her face gazing out at the storm, and one corner of my mind imagined, with the usual mild hysteria, the tree outside suddenly smashing the glass in front of her. The rest of my mind worked on how to explain adult relationships to this sensitive, perceptive kid.

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