I don’t want to talk about it. I brush past you with a dramatic flick of the wrist, as your hair blows behind you like Fabio’s. My flamboyant peacock display makes what I say a thunderous pronouncement, like that of a new ruler. But I’m just bluffing. The chasm of despair is only a sliver of unsettlement. A far cry from just fine.
I am just fine. Like very just fine. As I look out from my castle and hear the mourning of the land, I feel sympathy but also gratitude. For my health and relationships as I turn with my wine-filled goblet and retire to my velvet maroon curtains enclosing my four-post bed.
I was sincerely considering a four-post bed. But something about them screams fetishy sexcapades, and I worried about my mother-in-law’s sanity.
Just because I don’t want to talk about it doesn’t make it not there. A little knot in my chest wants it summoned to my vocals. But just like something I experienced last week, some things don’t make the blog. Not at first, anyway.
I can’t share a half-finished post; how unsatisfied I’d leave you. So, trust me that I do want to talk, just not yet. The corn, although half up, is not fully mature.
I’m talking in circles, aren’t I? My biggest fear is that you won’t understand me. The panic I feel in my chest after I’ve written a thought only to worry you won’t get it.
We’ve moved into Evelyn’s now empty playroom and are on an air mattress for the time being. Evelyn’s supposedly readying herself for sleep but instead begging me for toys and coloring books. I tell her to look outside, to see what characters or things she can see in the light blue sky that shines between the silhouettes of trees. She’s not into it, but after I spot a dog’s tail, she sees a face.
As a kid, I’d turn my head to look through the window to my right on the wall behind me. A bank of evergreen trees that lined the property between us and the Mariottis (more on them in a second) was my go-to show to watch, a dinosaur of my mind’s creation dancing between the trees. There was also a pond and frogs that filled the night’s air.
Back on the Mariottis. The couple had a thick accent and only visited our house once or twice. But I strongly remember how short they were, no taller than me at the time. Mr. Mariotti customized their house to a smaller scale, I was told, but with only a foggy memory of their dark foyer, I cannot confirm or deny.
I’m grateful I’ve committed to writing daily. It’s been so empowering and vulnerable and fun. My goal is to make a similar daily goal with my physical health in the coming month.
Man, I just got distracted by images of bed frames. Once again. I can’t tell you how many hundreds of bed frames I’ve looked through. Maybe it’s not so much that I need to find one, it’s just that I like looking at pretty things. And it’s surprising how many pretty bed frames are out there.
Wood, upholstered, wingback, platform? The choices are running in my mind like a chicken with its head cut off. Yet, however much I seem to want to spam myself with choices, I always seem to find just the right thing at crunch time.
Time for something else. Take care.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 