Tears Never Cried

The words she never said

were like tears never cried

Tears invisible to the world

Still they remained with her

The world wanted her quiet

just to smile

Once she thought she was strong

to control the tears

she was wrong

the tears inside

the unspoken words

turned to stone inside her

a burden still to be carried


Oh, darling dog

I do love you so

But you know I just don’t wake up as easily as you

It was 5:30 AM I thought you were having a bathroom emergency

with your insistence I wake up, even though  your bladder works better than mine.

You are smarter than I give you credit for,  you really didn’t have to go pee.

You knew there was freshly fallen snow outside, what else would a being want to do at 5:30 AM but go romp  in the snow.

I wish I could have your joie de vivre at this cruel hour of the day.  Really.

But it is time to come in from the white stuff, mama wants to get back under the covers.


In response to the prompt Miniature, I have written this post.  Miniature, the word rolls pleasantly off the tongue.  What might one think of first…a dollhouse full of miniatures?  A miniature breed of dog?

Does the word convey smallness or tininess in a way that one should admire?

Miniature I am not.  I’m tall.  In childhood I was always ahead of my peers as far of height goes.  As an adult the burden/gift or whatever you might call isn’t something I think of quite so much, at least not in a physical way.

Miniature….what size would that be..I’ll never be a size 2 or 4 or 6.  My height plus my broad shoulders simply won’t allow it.  It is funny though how women are admired for being a certain size. A size zero….what age would I have been when I passed out of the size zero range…9 or 10?

Miniature..the words of family members praising the petite women of our families.

Miniature…growing up I often felt small.  I wanted my physical size to conform to the way I felt, so others wouldn’t notice me, and my flaws.  Being the tallest thirteen year old in the class, I’d sometimes slouch as if this would stop others from noticing my adolescent awkwardness.

I wake up, my hair a tangled mess.  My eyes are barely open, it takes a bit to erase those persistent cobwebs from my brain.

You tell me we are heading to the mountains today.  I love beauty but somehow the idea of staying in bed seems more appealing in that moment.  I don’t voice my opinion though.

We leave for our journey. When the mountains come in view, I am awestruck as always. We keep driving, gaining altitude and navigating tricky curves.

We stop, deciding  to walk for a bit.  A sign tells us we are two miles above sea level.  We start our hike. This particular hike takes us almost to the sky.  We can gaze at other mountaintops some still dusted with snow.

To our eyes the beauty is beyond compare.  The day is deceptively sunny this many feet above sea level, for the wind is cold and harsh.  Our hike has taken us above the timberline where only small delicate plants flourish.

The air is thin.  I feel breathless but exhilarated.  I hope I can remember this day forever.

We drive back to the valley where it feels like summer.

Thanks for taking me to the summit.



This is an older post.  It was inspired in part by a coworker.  She’s a user(0f people) and presents different sides of her personality depending on who she is dealing with.  She isn’t the brightest bulb, but she sure has the social skills that she uses to manipulate others.  I’m wondering if it is time to part ways with my employer and people like her. I am now actively trying to problem solve some of my issues at work, but you can’t make people listen if they don’t wish to. I hate hate hate the thought of quitting and leaving.  One thing I have managed to overcome in my depression if the urge to run away when the going gets tough.


You leave a trail of glitter wherever you go. I’m told I should delight in the sparkle you leave behind, as if I can capture some of the radiance for myself.  Your friends tell me to pay attention, that if I am lucky I will find a speck of precious metal or gemstone in the glitter. They tell me about silver, gold, ruby and emerald.

I don’t see what they see. I find the glitter cheap and abrasive.  Instead of delighting in your marvelous sparkle, why don’t you simply stop with the glitter, so I won’t be left to clean up your mess.




What sorts of scars do you have?  What sorts of stories do they tell?  Would you erase the scars if you could?  Are they a reminder of a traumatic time?

I recently met a lady that has severe burn scars.  The burns were inflicted on her by her then husband.  I could not imagine going through such violence.  I almost cried as she shared her story.  I’m sure her scars will not lessen much in visibility in her lifetime, they will be a reminder of the violence she endured.

I have all sorts of scars.  Most are tiny and have faded with time.  I’ve got a few scars from where I had stitches as a result of a childhood mishap.

I have a few puckery chickenpox scars.  I suppose these date me in a way.  My kids have had the varicella immunization so hopefully they will never go through chickenpox.  I also have what I think is a scar from the smallpox immunization.  This also dates me, is this is no longer routinely given.

Of course I have a bit of acne scarring.  These are mostly faded with time, but my skin is far from perfect.

I have a little scar on my leg from where I had an ugly but benign growth removed.  The scar is almost invisible now but it almost looks like a little flower, or a hand drawn rendition of the sun with sunbeams.

I have my nearly invisible(but not to me) C-section scars.  The skin around the scar feels oddly numb…but can occasionally feel painful is the skin gets tugged on.  But of course I wouldn’t trade those scars for anything.  Two C-sections resulted in two great kids.  Pain resulting in wonder.

As a nurse I see lots of scars.  A remnant that tells a little story about the person.  Sometimes I’m not always sure what the scars are from.  There are joint replacement scars,  cardiac bypass scars ,and  vertical scars from the older way of doing C-sections.  There are scars from accidents and scars from violence.

I recently met someone with a mostly faded whitish scar on his slightly tanned skin. It was on his face.  I wanted to ask what the scar was from but I thought it was none of my business.  Still I wanted to know the story.

I don’t think I would ever do anything to erase my scars.  I have some unfortunate looking scars from a laparoscopic gallbladder surgery.  Only my husband and I can see them.   That was the price to pay though to be free of my pesky pain producing gallbladder.

I’ve Been Nominated…

neatThis lazy slow blogger has been nominated by An Offbeat Bluestocking for the Real Neat Blogger Award.  Check out her wonderful blog! Thank you so much.  Sorry I’ve been a bit slow in responding, the November blogathon wore me out.

Here are the rules:

  1. Put the award logo on your blog.
  2. Answer 7 questions by the person who nominated you.
  3. Thank the person who nominated you, linking to their blog.
  4. Nominate any number of bloggers you like, linking to their blogs.


Here are the questions Clarissa from An Offbeat Bluestocking asked of the nominees.

  1. What is your favorite quote?

I have so many, but I have always liked this one from Maya Angelou…”When people show you who they are, believe them.”

2.  What song are you listening to right now?  If you are not listening to             anything right now, what is your favorite song?

I really like this song by Jewel, My Father’s Daughter.

3. What made you start blogging?

Lots of reasons.  An attempt to tap into my creative side.  An attempt to organize my thoughts by writing them down.  Connecting with other bloggers.

4. What is your favorite weather?

Sunny with a breeze.

5.  What do you plan on achieving with this blog?

See number 3.  Even I have been on this planet for a while, I hope to become a better writer through blogging, and exercise that muscle between my ears.

6.  What is your favorite book?

Oh that is hard to answer.   Here are a few authors I like….Henning Mankell, Ruth Rendell, PD James, Jhumpa Lahiri.

7.  What is your favorite meal of the day?



Thank you so much for nominating me, Clarissa.  Very inspiring.

Here are my nominations.  Go check out their blogs.

  1. Kazst, from Maybe Autism Explains It All
  2. Steph, from View From Behind Shutters
  3. Jan from Chronicles from V & J



Here are my questions:

1)What is your favorite movie?

2)Do you prefer salty or sweet snacks?

3)Would you prefer a vacation at the beach or the mountains?

4)Do you have any pets?

5)Do you have any favorite holiday traditions?

6)What is your favorite color?

7)What made you start blogging?

Looking forward to seeing what everyone has to say!



pShe sits in a bar with a nautical theme and little white Christmas lights.

Her drink has become watery as she contemplates life’s latest complication.

Does she go forward with her parents’ plan to find someone to marry, and transform into a sedate society matron adorned with pearls?

Or does she detour from the plan for the man sitting next to her, the man with the Southern accent who spins words into a web in which she has already been captured?

Is it she who is the pearl, trapped inside a shell that has started to open just a little as she sits next to the silken tongued man. She lets him open the shell the rest of the way with his words to discover what she has hidden deep inside.

The Outsiders

With the prompt “The Outsiders”, we are instructed to talk about a time we felt as if we are on the outside looking in, however we wish to interpret that.  If I haven’t used the words “being an outsider”, I have felt that way many times during my life.

When I was a kid I was very shy.  I don’t feel like I had the feeling of being an outsider though until my family moved when I was in elementary school because of my dad’s job.  Starting at a new school I’d felt everyone had already formed friendships, and that there wasn’t a place for me.  I did make friends, but it seemed to be more of a struggle.  In my young mind the rules seemed different, and I wasn’t sure how to navigate. Understanding a math assignment…no problem.  Understanding the politics of making friends in elementary school…much more mysterious.

I’ve also sometimes felt like an outsider at work.  My current workplace has more cliques than any I’ve seen before.  Brown-nosing and schmoozing with the boss will get you far.   I’m no good at it, but at this stage of my life, I really don’t care.   Make no mistake, I’m perfectly pleasant at work..but that is as far as it goes.  Because I don’t get invested in the politics, I can see how sometimes the schmoozing goes a little too far and often does not end well when the boss delays taking action when one of her groupies is having problems at work.

I’m not as shy as I used to be.  I am an introvert though.  At this point in my life it doesn’t bother me to be an outsider.

Ghost Train

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Trains, Planes, and Automobiles.”

There are always ghosts at this time of year.  Memories of experiences tucked away in a dusty box, seemingly secure until something invisible opens the box.  Memories not yet made, feelings of anxiety and hope about what might fill the box.

I had the idea for the ghost part of the post before today.  I couldn’t think about what I might post in response to this prompt.  But then somehow it hit me.  I would do my own version of the Christmas Carol, or at least a very rough draft. It would take place on a train, so there’s my tenuous connection to the prompt.

Marley is a woman in this tale..  Marley violently shakes the woman awake.  She must get up and get on the train.  Her life depends on it.

She gets on the train.  It is dark.  Waiting.  The train starts to move.  She feels sleepy and groggy..  There is a figure sitting next to me. She is Ghost of the Past. She is hard to see at times.  The ghost  seems to be made of air, weightless.  The woman with the ghost feels as though she is wearing a gown of lead.  Dread fills her heart.  She wants to run but she can’t.

As she starts to awaken,she  travel through a valley of fuzzy memories.  Has she  seen these things in pictures?  She sees a girl with a smile on her face riding a bike down a tree-lined street, things seem to feel more real and she feel warms inside.  Yet she know this journey will not stay that way.  The girl seems happy for a while.  She has vague memories of her first few years of school and the brick house she lived in.  In her mind her backyard seems endless, but seeing it from the train window it seems much much smaller.  Does the Ghost have the right house?  A parade of beer cans in and out of the house.  The beer cans mean something to the little girl, she isn’t sure what though.  she sees the beer cans, cheap brands of beer.  Of course she know the little girl will learn the painful lessons of what they mean.  Always a current of anger.  Arguments that come out of nowhere.  Her dad likes beer, but is seems to suck the joy out of him.

She sees her sister on the train ride. She and her sister are playing, running.  Barbie dolls. Things seem so much simpler and more joyful as she watches the little girls playing.  Where did that joy go?   Eventually beer or one of his cousins will start sucking the joy out of her sister as well.  But right now the girls are innocent of what the stinky parade of beer cans means.

We speed up.  A new place and a new school.  Things seem more complicated.  She don’t know the answers to all the questions.  Hours of church.  My Catholic school uniform. Walking home with a boy that seems different, but she isn’t sure what makes him different. A playground, where she sometimes feel like an outsider.  High school.  Another uniform.  Walking home from school.  Rude comments from car windows.  Male attention, but not the sort she wants.  Talking with friends in the cafeteria. The biology teacher that she liked.  A boy passes away.  Why?  Does his family know the answer?  Lots of drinking amongst her classmates, but for the most part the girl manages to steer clear.

The girl has her first kiss(and her second and third…) with boy in a basement after she has had a few beers.  The girl has never met the boy before that night.  He goes to a different school.  The girl thinks the boy must not know how undesirable the boys at her high school think she is, otherwise they would never kiss her.  She remember the half drunk eyes almost closed sort of dreamy look the boy has as he leans in to kiss her.  She remembers his beautiful brown eyes and the scar by his lip.  And of course she remembers the taste of beer soaked kisses.

High school graduation.  Going to college.  Drinking.  Meeting new people.  Heartbreak.  Remembering crossing a bridge over a river frequently on my walks home from the library.  The cold dark river.  Disturbing thoughts coming out of nowhere.  The train seems to slow down as we cross the river.  Why?  Why can’t it speed up again.

Going back to school.  Working.  Meeting her  husband.  Lazy days together in bed in a white room with a big window.  A white satin dress and a tuxedo.  Flowers.  People. Cake.  Marriage.  More lazy days together.  The couple enjoys the lazy days, but wishes for something else.  A baby.  The baby finally comes.  It is a girl.   She holds her daughter  for the first time.

Good times and bad times.  The girl and her husband have a few fights.  She never knows how to say what she means in a way that doesn’t get tangled up with emotion and old hurts from the past.  She tries to get better at it though.

The girl doesn’t feel right.  She has vague stirrings in her mind that don’t add up.  But then these vague stirrings  in her mind and her belly do add up after all.  She is pregnant.  She can’t believe it.  A boy.

The girl and her husband navigate through life with their very own girl and boy.  School.  Her daughter starts kindergarten.  The train speeds up and all of a sudden .

The train stops at cemeteries.  The gravestones don’t seem real.  Pain. Cold.  A hardened heart.

She dozes off.  Her daughter is now seventeen.  She says no to the ghost.  She  wants to see more of her kids.  The train screeches to a halt.

She meets another Ghost.  She takes another train ride.  She doesn’t quite understand this time, as the ghost navigates the present.  She is supposed to find an answer.  She is supposed to do something.  She must do something and she must not wait.  She isn’t sure what though.  Figure out how to take better care of herself?   Try to repair broken relationships?  One thing stands out though is her daughter.  The daughter that is seventeen.  The ghosts from the past and the ghost of the present tell her not to make the same mistakes her parents made with her, as she watches her daughter in her last year of high school.  Things become fuzzy again.  The train takes off.

She meets the ghost from the future.  She gets on the train and things are fuzzy. She knows a year from now her daughter will be away at college. She feels bittersweet.  She seems to see different things as she looks out the left window of the train…as opposed to the right window.  Outside the left window life seems cold and lonely, her bones ache,  Outside the right window, things are warmer, more cozy and comfortable, filled with love. Her husband is by her side.  She leans against him.  What is the ghost from the future trying to tell her?

She is asleep again, in a daze from the rhythm of the train.  She wakes up again.  She blinks and it is morning.  Her mind sluggishly embraces the challenge of a new day. The dog gets in bed with her and gives her a kiss.  She puts her shoes on so she can take the dog out.  The sun is out.  She smiles.  She has no pain.  The world is her oyster.  She goes back inside and makes breakfast for her family, ready to share the warmth of her love.