She saw the tea cup decorated with red roses in the antique shop and she knew she had to buy it. She was sure her grandmother had a tea cup identical to it. She had always loved that tea cup. Whatever had happened to it?
It was funny how a simple tea cup made her think about her grandmother for the rest of the day. She had regrets that she had never tried to get to know her grandmother better, for now it was too late. The tea cup was a symbol of her grandmother’s struggles, of a hard life. Her life had so many more opportunities and physical comfort compared to that of her grandmother.
She was never quite sure what to say to her grandmother, after all they didn’t seem to have much in common. Now she wondered, what part of my grandmother is in me? There was the faintest hint of her grandmother’s bone structure in her face.
The tea cup was always on display, one of her grandmother’s treasured items in her small house. Grandmother kept her house neat, and took good care of everything she had.
Grandmother was a “little old lady” presumably delicate. However she’d lived a much harder life than her granddaughter. Her parents had come from the old world. Grandmother dropped out of school at an early age to begin working. She’d worked on and off throughout her adult life, out of economic necessity. Those memes about fifties housewives, they’d never quite applied to her.
She found a treasured place for the tea cup with red roses. Every time she looked at it she would smile just a little bit and think of her grandmother.
Everywhere she goes she always can connect with the seedy side of town. In her hometown it is the dividing line where old money sits across the street from the very poor. Nestled nearby is a “charming” historical district with many bars.
In the seedy side of town the golden rule does not apply. The predatory and the opportunistic easily find the most damaged of society. Sometimes it is hard to tell the predator from the prey.
In the dim light of night she looks attractive. If you look closer though you can see her smudged mascara, dirty fingernails and unwashed clothes, and you might turn away.
She mostly seeks her own type, those who cannot say no to another beer. She seeks validation and affirmation that she is still something. She doesn’t care the price she pays as long as she gets her fix for the night.
Not content to sit at home and fall asleep after one too many drinks, she comes alive in the night. For just one more night she can tell a sympathetic stranger her tales of woe.
In the hot blinding daylight of summer, life is just too harsh to face. Better to sit in the dark air conditioned bar where no one cares if she is sober or drunk.
She snooped in the suitcases, looking for clues. Clues about the owner of the suitcases.
She found neon colored bras and sparkly panties galore, enough to make a stripper jealous. All brands outside of the snooper’s price range.
Bottle caps and receipts for the liquor store.
A planner with many entries, of tasks never accomplished.
Overdue bills and credit card receipts.
Potions and eye shadows, enough for a year, not just a short trip.
Bottles of pills with no labels. Not Motrin or Tylenol best she could tell.
She stopped snooping, more bewildered than ever. Clearly over the years the gap had become ever wider, and she wasn’t sure she would ever understand the owner of the suitcases.
Sitting in my mother’s living room, in the house I mostly grew up in, I feel like I am travelling back in time.
The living room especially hasn’t changed very much since I was a kid. Some new furniture mixed in with the old. The paintings on the wall are the same. Newer curtains that look just like the old. Other parts of the house evoke a similar feeling. As I sit in a chair in her living room it is easy to let my mind drift by to the days of being a teen. I get the same feeling in the dining room, memories of dozens of holiday meals and who sat where at the table and what sort of dishes were used. At times it is a comforting feeling. Other times I look around at things that could be spruced up or fixed, if only mom would let us.
One day, mom sat in a chair and I fixed her hair for her. I was glad to do it, but perhaps not ready for the role reversal. I’m sure many more role reversals are yet to come.
I look for inspiration everywhere. Inspiration to counteract the shadow of depression. Inspiration to tell me there are others who have much heavier burdens in life but manage to survive and thrive. Inspiration from anyone and everyone. Inspiration from a friend or someone’s written word. I want to be that golden woman kissed by the sun with a smile that tells the world she can still run the race.
I was feeling lazy. Lazy like I could drift off to sleep if I stayed on the couch much longer. Was it my depression making me feel that way, I knew I had no reason to be genuinely tired. There was also a spot of pain in my lower back. Normally that might be an excuse to continue laying on the couch. A little voice in my head told me my back(and the rest of me) would benefit from a walk.
The dog and I left in the car in search of a walking trail we’d never visited before. Husband was busy with yardwork. The teenage son does activities much more strenuous than a simple walk. Side note…I wish I could burn as many calories as he does. So it was just me and the dog. The dog is always a willing companion.
Our new walking trail was delightful. Part of the trail was surrounded by trees on either side, shutting out the modern world…except the pavement I was walking on. There is something so peaceful, so renewing about being amongst the trees. If you try hard enough you can shut out the buzz of faraway traffic, and concentrate only on the sound of the wind and the song of the birds.
Once we left the wooded area of the trail, I enjoyed looking at the wildflowers. Of course I wouldn’t be completely honest if I didn’t enjoy the people watching. People out enjoying a sunny day. People committed to staying active one way or another. Nicely tanned muscled men running and biking. I’m married, but I can still look, discreetly of course.
The dog and I came home, tired in a good way.
Today’s daily prompt is disastrous. Whatever could I talk about? I live in the Midwest United States. One could talk about disastrous weather conditions that can occur here…summer can bring tornadoes, and winter can bring ice, snow and bitter cold.
Disastrous can mean other things…pressing the snooze button one too many times makes for a great start to the day. Happy Wednesday everyone!
Son, I wonder have we provided you the right soil in which to thrive?
Will you form deep roots, grow solid like an oak to protect you against the storm?
You are the tallest tree in our little forest, they say you grow like a weed.
But it is not just height you need.
You often look so carefree, your beautiful smile.
Other times your face is like stone, determined to keep thoughts inside.
Already, you have some scars, you think you are physically invincible.
We have but a few years before the world says you are an adult.
You are ready to branch out into the wider world.
Yet I can’t forget it was just yesterday you were the smallest tree in our little forest.
Almost every fall I putter around in the soil , digging holes and dropping in flower bulbs that bloom in the spring. Many bulbs look similar to an onion, and some are actually decorative members of the onion family. The transformation from bulb to flower always amazes and delights me.
When I look at the colorful catalogs of fall bulbs, I almost feel like a kid waiting for Christmas. First I choose the bulbs..tulips, daffodils, hyacinth, muscari, crocus and allium. Then I plant them, and must wait through the long winter to see what appears in my garden. When spring comes I am out in my garden daily, waiting for the plants to poke through the soil and bloom. It is always worth the wait.
On my errands today, I several women overdressed for the summer heat. I just can’t understand why women are told they must dress in layers of clothes because of their religious beliefs.
To make matters worse, one woman was with a man wearing a short sleeved shirt and shorts. I thought I would have heatstroke looking at these women with their headcoverings and extra layers.
I went to a Catholic school for grades 1-12. There was always a dress/uniform code that had modesty in mind.
I can tell you, for all those who advocate modesty, dressing a certain way does not guarantee that people will treat you differently or have a better opinion of you.
I’ll keep wearing shorts.