Sometimes I write stuff and hide it away — I've told you this before. And sometimes it's not because I don't like it. Just the opposite. I love it. But it might just be too honest. And I might not want certain people to read it. But I'm trying to be braver. I'm practicing. And so, in my attempt to cast out all fear, here are a few things that have been tucked away that I quite like. They aren't too terribly revealing, no worries there, but I tucked them away for a reason, I suppose. A reason whose specificity escapes me now, but regardless, here they are.
I hope that my children get my eyes, but not my hips. That they laugh a lot and give hugs, even when they're 14 and super cool. That they eat their vegetables and scratch up their knees, learn how to throw a ball and write in cursive, and aren't afraid to cry when they speak of things dear to their heart. I hope they sing — well or poorly — and learn, earlier than I did, of their great worth, no matter what the world says, no matter what the "cool kids" say. Especially not the cool kids.
Never had she wanted to touch someone so badly. To grab his arm, wrap her limbs around his trunk and melt. Melt into him. Disappear. Lose herself to his embrace. To his steady breathing and deep-bellied laughter.
That laugh. It was like nothing she'd ever experienced. How it swelled and shrank in an instant, transforming his face into a smile as big as the valley, his eyes looking at the source of humor in what seemed to be a combination of appreciation and surprise.
Surprise. Yes, it was surprising, how tempted she was to snatch this boy up, a boy she met just a few weeks prior, and make him her own. So unsure most other times, so hesitant to commit even to a second date. But Unsurety was absent and The Future called in sick. Both so unlike them, those bosom buddies of this girl, this planner and organizer and thinker of all possible scenarios.
This time, she just wanted the present. With him.
To live. Right now. With him.
There's a kind of relief that comes after detachment. Not particularly relaxing or pleasing in any way, except that it is a release. An escape from what was. But it hints at sour, because there is a release from what could have been.
It isn't jealousy that I feel, but more abandonment, disappointment, a feeling of being unwanted, or, to me even worse, unneeded. I've been replaced. Yet no matter how my realist side tries to tell me, "You aren't special. You're mother lied," I still feel irreplaceable. Or perhaps, that I should be.
And I will be. I suppose all these failures, all these "practice relationships," are quite good. I learn more about myself every time. More about how I should be treated, too. Gosh, I deserve better. And I'll know when the right person comes along because suddenly I'll be irreplaceable. I'll be needed, wanted. And I'll have no desire for release.