Removed...a little too raw.

Oh, Kristin.

Ouch, Kristin. That's very painful.

One of the things that's going on with me and these photographs is that I have a family picture that matches each one closely. On the shelf to my left is a b/w shot of me sitting on what could be the same wall as the woman in #1, with a similar-to-the-point-of-same view in the background. The b/w of Mom and me at The Hermitage for #2, one of DH on the beach at Cape Lookout, swatting at mosquitos the size of paper wasps for #3. I don't have one for #4, but #5 is Mom and Dad's 50th anniversary party, and #6 is my dad, when he still had hair, in his suit and some nameless friend's borrowed car. From that same day, I have him and Mom, in her flower-print dress and cartwheel hat. They'd been married for a year or two, but they had a city-hall wedding and no photographs, so I've always thought of that picture as their "wedding" picture.

I can't be objective on this batch of photos.

7:40 in the morning and I am counting down to the end of the day. I get into the office and count down the hours until my first break. Then I count down to lunch. Then I count down to my second break. The final count down to 5:00. Only 3 blocks til the train station. Only 5 minutes until the train comes. 20 minute ride. Half-mile walk to the car. One and a half mile drive. Walk up the drive, open the back door and there she is. Excited and smiling, she reaches for me. And I am home.

Photo six, word count: 100

Momma's prominent scowl took on new depth, the day she received that letter. About six months before, my Aunt Mae had caught herself a rich husband in New York, and I figured it must be a picture of their new baby. Since her sister's soft life had been making momma bitter for as long as I could recollect, I shrugged off her scowl, squealing as I grabbed the photo from her hand. "Is it baby Kathryn? I wanna see her!"

His familiar face in that unfamiliar setting brought me up right sharp. "Daddy's not coming home again, is he, momma?"

Such lovely drabbles. Cindy, that last one was a kicker! ita, I like yours in particular because that urge was (and still is, to some extent) a driving force in my life for so many years. I'm at the point right now of wanting to gnaw my leg off. Only the chains have gotten heavier in the past few years and I'd have to gnaw off so much I'd bleed to death.

Personally, I have much to say about home. Only, I'm barely moving on four hours sleep and my brain is in lockdown right now. I think a short nap is in order before I try to come up with anything to match the pictures, or not, as the case may be. It may even have to wait until tomorrow. But I really, really like the topic this week.

Oh, gods, Kristin... ouch. I know the feeling.

This isn't even close to drabble length. I don't care. It's what I want to say, so I'm-a saying it in more than 100 words this time.

With apologies to the Cowboy Junkies.

This Man, This Bed, This Time

That man, that bed, that time: This was where my heart lived.

There was a roof that was mostly glass; at night, the stars speckled the cats as they hunted, or slept in the half-open piano lid. There was a neighbour whose yard ran alongside our property; my Siamese used to steal her pretty unmentionables and bring them to us. There was an inconveniently-shaped kitchen. There was a bed, our bed, sometimes, but never completely. There was - keeping my heart from being my home - the scent of another woman, redolent in every dust mote.

This man, this bed, this time: This is where my heart lives.

They are similar, those two, and yet somehow, the difference is enormous; we are similar, he and I, and the differences are amusing, and mostly perfect. Life is sometimes a jangle of annoyance, sometimes a huge uproarious rush of astonishment and pleasure. We know each other, in the way only two people together this long on the basis of trust can possibly know each other. And this bed, in its entirety?

Is mine.

Huh. Killed the thread.

Here's a 100-worder:

Golden Gate Avenue

Our house is a place of consonance and dissonance.

The furnace is in the attic; the vents are above ours heads. In the high-ceilinged kitchen, hanging off racks, All-Clad pots bang gently and musically together when the heat's on.

The Maytag is in the basement, below ground level; the spin of the washer is often drowned out by the sump pump.

The kitchen's main room has a window, looking out at another room. The cats stare at each other through it, indoors all.

Home is lemon bread baking, and Nic dozing on the sofa, and guitars waiting to be played.

I like both of those, Deb.

I, too, am stuck with a drabble I just can't prune. It's over, but for once I don't really care. There's no way I can make it fit, because as it is, it fits my heart and that's all that matters.

Inspired by, but not attached to, picture #3.

Summer in December

For many years after I joined the Navy, everywhere I lived seemed to be inhabited by palm trees and bright tropical plants. It didn’t take long to call these places home. “Summer” in December became second nature, I didn’t look twice.

Except once. Christmas south of the equator actually is in summer. That year it felt wrong. The way knowing my brother was home, dying of cancer, was wrong. I cried salt tears into the endless salt waters of the ocean on Christmas Day. My wings were clipped and all I wanted was to fly. Fly like a bird, back to its breeding grounds, back to the nest, back home. Where, maybe by just being there, everything would become right, again.

Heh. My horoscope for the month:

Do you aspire to publish your work in book or magazine form? This same full moon, May 23, just might give you the break you need. It would be worthwhile to send a query letter to the publication you are interested in early in the month, because the full moon will bring closure to this question. It's one of your best moments of the year to find out if you have what it takes to get published.