If I had known at the time that a divorce,

followed by 20 years of bad decisions,

approximately 8 failed relationships,

and countless disappointing first dates

were the formula to recognizing you,

would I have complained less to my friends,

smiled more,

[better] enjoyed the journey unfolding en route to us?

Probably not.

It may be the very nature of a blessing,

not to be appreciated

until its reach is fully extended

& wrapped around your waiting form.

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A pattern requires repetition. Knit one, purl two only becomes a stretchy edging after several rows. And then it’s time to change the pattern — the color of the yarn, the needle size, the stitches — so the sleeve contrasts with the cuff.

Repetition, change, repetition, change. That in itself forms a pattern. Pretty soon you have a sweater, maybe a red cardigan, put on in place of the sportcoat & tie you just removed and hung in the closet.

Did you know that Mr. Rogers weighed exactly 143 pounds every day for 30 years?

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Did I waver on the tennis court that day? Cruelty came so easily after a week of feeling trapped, Betsy & I the only “normal” ones in our cabin, feeling like misfits ourselves, then forced into close proximity with a fat girl with a lisp, and a slow girl — a six-year-old in a 13-year-old’s body.

When you’re 13, and low on the totem pole, you grasp at anything to feel less powerless. Even when that means betraying your cabinmate, leading her, like a lamb to slaughter, into the mocking gaze of the boys.

Being cool felt more important than being kind.
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I used to own the most beautiful, handcrafted, boar bristle brush. I haven’t much use for hairbrushes these days, my pixie cut requiring no more than some swishing with the fingers, but all through my childhood and into my teens my long, red locks were my crowning glory. Worth even the pain of having the tangles mercilessly ripped out by my mom after each bath — like knife stabs on my tender scalp. The brush never yanked and ripped like that — only the evil comb. I’d cry and cry, and yet it never occurred to either of us that snarls could be removed in any other manner, teased out [gently] instead of torn.

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“Always for others” was the rhythm playing through the hidden speakers in the film of her life. Self equaled selfish, & everyone knew where that led — a one-way ticket to Hell, with fire, brimstone, & sharp pitchforks in the hands of those with nothing pleasant on their minds. “Always for others,” the chant went, unheard but understood. “Always for others.” The answer to every question she asked. Others, others, others. Never herself. Always — and only — for others.

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