Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Weather forcast

As long as we are telling airport stories, this one is my favorite.

Same airport a few years later. JUR is 3 ish.

We are find a bench and sit down to wait the planes arrival.

JUR happily plays next to me with his hot wheels.

I kinda zone out and find a quiet spot in my head to just breath.

I am roused from my zenness by flecks of moisture sprinkling down on my face. I glance around.

JUR leans back and sticks out his tongue and PBBBBTTTTTTTTT's spit straight up into the air.

My eyes widen as I become acutely aware of all the other people around us, giving me that stare.

You know the one.


Yeah, That one.

I lean over side ways and hiss to him from the side of my mouth. "What are you doing?!"

He gives me his cheesy, I-cheat-in-scrabble-smile and replies, "Look mama!"  PBBBBTTTTTTTTT!!! "Its raining!"

 "Please don't do that, your getting other people wet."

He returns back to driving his car.

I look back at the disapproving eyes and stare them all down. While I stifle the laughter in my soul.

You make so many choices as a parent. Some you choose to make because they reflect your values, others because they aid your children's growth, and some you make just because of that awful peer pressure of others judging you.

I wasn't secure enough in my parenting skills to do what I really wanted and should have done in that instant.

Oh if I could go back and have a do-over.

"Look mama!"  PBBBBTTTTTTTTT!!! "Its raining!"

I would have smiled at him and tossed back my head and PBBBBTTTTTTTTTed spit into the air and then as it rained down on us I would have said to him, "You're right! it IS raining!"

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Secret Service games

Years ago when JUR was a small baby old a friend flew into our small town to visit me. I went to pick her up and learned she had missed a flight connection and wouldn't be in until later. I asked the courtesy desk person, "when is the next flight due in?"

"2:00 pm" she replied.

and me and my son left.

I returned to the airport  at 1:45 pm and noticed the parking lot was vacant. Not a busy flight I shrugged and went to get my son from his car seat. As soon as I unbuckled him I could smell the pungent odor of diarrhea.

Groaning I changed him and looked for a plastic bag to put it in, uggh...none were to be found. It was summer time and the temp was in the 90's. There was NO way I wanted to leave that diaper of vileness cooking in the truck. So I tucked the poopie diaper in the backpack I used for a diaper bag, and headed into the airport, figuring first trash can I found, I would toss it.

As I approached the terminal gate a tall gentleman in a dark suit touched his ear and headed my way.  "Ma'am" he said politely holding up his hand to motion me to stop.

I complied as I juggled the squirming child. Intrigued by this deviation from the normalness of the airport.

"Secret Service, ma'am. State your business here."

Oh really?! how cool! never gotten to talk to secret service before. " Friend missed her flight, airport said next flight due in at 2:00, so checking to see if she is on it."

"Next flight in is Airforce One."  He said leaning to the side eyeing my back pack. "anything hazardous in your backpack?"

Total deer in the head light moments. I just stared at him in silence for a few seconds debating in my head if I should tell him. I burst into hysterical laughter.

oh, great I am to get arrested for smuggling a stinky poopie diaper into the airport that the president will be landing at in a few minutes.

I felt my face flush red as I stopped laughing long enough to say, "only a stinkie poopie diaper I need to toss in the trash."

His eyes crinkled up as he fought his face not to smile. He closed his eyes for a second to get control then touched his ear mike. " ___________, I am sending a woman with a child to you, search the backpack then she is cleared to go in." He winked at me, and motioned me to go ahead.


His co-worker was not amused!

So, yes I have been searched by a real life secret service agent. And they let me get within a hundred yards or so, of the president with a WDoMD* in my back pack.

(Wet Diaper of Mass Diarrhea)

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Growing nerdy kids.

Any Red Dwarf fans out there? 

Here is Hansolo's self portrait....That "H" on her forehead for you all who don't get the joke stands for hologram. 

We have been on a joking run of putting the Holo-H on our foreheads in real life. Its too funny to sneak in and draw it on the kids forehead while they are sleeping and they wake up to discover they have been hologrammed. bwhahahaha!!

Here is my favorite drawing from JUR's kindergarden years. (click on images to enlarge)

any guesses?

Sept 2008, and I quote:

"Mama those are an unassimilated species (yellow men on the grassy knoll) and these are Borg cubes and spheres coming to assimilate them."


All I have to say is that was one time I was glad the teachers couldn't understand his speech.

My little 6 year old Trekkie, Your drawing rocked mister!

Friday, January 18, 2013

cause you win with the most pain

Be careful everyone, this came out WAAAAAY more TRIGGERY than I thought it would

There is wonderful song out there by The Script, called Hall of Fame.

"Standing in the hall of fame
And the world's gonna know your name
Cause you burn with the brightest flame
And the world's gonna know your name
And you'll be on the walls of the hall of fame"

(C) Danny O'Donoghue and Mark Sheehan

I always hear the third line as:  "cause you win with the most pain"

and some days.... some days....

That is how I feel.

Been "off" for nearly 2 months now. My mind fighting itself in some war I was not invited too.



Lost in my own mind. Made worse in December by a kidnapping.

Something very unsettling happened on a message board I write on. I have been on that board for 11 years. It has always had the same moderator. After 11 years of knowing this person you get to be friends you know? Cyber friends you never see of hear there voice and in this case even know there real name. But important to your life none the less.

Something happened at the cooperate level and in the dark of night the moderators were gone. No warning or chance for either side to say goodbye.

like a kidnapping...

leaving in its wake a holy-hell of unanswered questions and pain.  There is a real person behind the avatar. Just like there is a real person on this end of the key board. 

Some how it would have been easier if they announced that the moderator had died. There would be grief and closure....and knowing.

This unknowing, this awful, soul crushing ....silence, is a torture that is familiar.

The fall out of that ripped an old scab off my psyche. Leaving a ragged wound hemorrhaging. Old, unhealable pain.

Of all the things that happened to me as a child, perhaps the most damaging was being ignored. Gawd, shoot me, rape me, beat me bloody, rip my skin off with a potato peeler, dip me in burning oil, anything, but please don't ignore me.

I was four, what I did, I don't know, but it pissed her off and she grabbed me by my arm and hauled me to the back door and opened it. Tossed me onto the back porch and shut the door. I never went outside alone, the vastness of the yard was terrifying to me. I stood up and turned around and looked up at her through the  window. She starred me down with cold eyes and locked the door.

Locked the door

my soul burst into tears as I tried the door knob. The fear and panic grew exponentially until I was a screaming snotty bawling mess. Pounding on the door in sheer terror. 

She stood there ignoring me. Looking out the window, right through me, as if I was not there.

I felt my self shatter into fragments  I felt my brain being scrambled as if she had poked in a coat hanger and  spun it around blending my brain into a soupy slush.

I screamed and pounded on that door for a lifetime. 

Till I fell into an exhausted mess on the porch and gasped for breath.

What choices did I have? I was FOUR FUCKING YEARS OLD. I am not wanted by the outside world, I am not wanted by the inside world.

yeah, I got your message mama.

I can be tossed out like trash.

and worse than can't see my pain.

Eventually I heard the lock unbolt.

She didn't even open the door for me...just unlocked it and walked away.

Only part of me, went back inside, part of me didn't survive the porch torture.

She held a grudge and never "looked" at me again, always right through me.

So many people never saw me as a child. I was invisible and felt every so much like a ghost haunting the physical plain of man. I never tried to connect, why bother?

Every injury I would run to her for comfort. She would icily ask, "are you bleeding?"


"Then stop crying." and she would walk away.

Somewhere in her life she made up her mind that compassion was a sick emotion, and she never gave us any.

School issued in a whole new hell of bulling by others. can't hurt me worse than I am being hurt at home.

Junior high, I come to the dinner table with a fresh cut under my right eye, bleeding red tears down my face. This will make her see me. She will at least have to tell me to go wash my face. DAMN YOU, YOU WILL SEE ME.

not a peep from her. Just that cold icy stare right through me.

I can tell you this, having a pony rear up and flip over on you, crushing yourself in a car door and having both collar bones and 4 ribs bow and break in unison, burning third degree burns into your flesh with an open flame, none of that hurt anywhere near the degree of being ignored did.

Shoot me, stab me, rape me, stone me, bury me alive...but for God's sake, don't ignore me.

Don't ignore me.

When I was 17 I backed over my little sister with the van. Thankfully the bumper knocked her sideways and just her legs got driven over. I sat in anguish in my room while they were at the ER.

Waiting for mama to come home and punish me.

She came home and nothing....


I took my knife and began slicing up my hands.

Brother runs down stairs and I hear him say to mama, "P's cutting herself up!"

I hear my mama snap the newspaper and go back to reading.


Nothing has ever healed this wound within me. Nothing.

Three therapist working together in years of therapy. Nothing can undo this damage.

The wound is as raw and angry as ever, unhealable.

I can time travel, I have that ability within me. All you have to do is ignore me on a scale that triggers the PTSD and whoomp...I am dumped back there on the porch and I am four years old.

My husband has triggered it in me once. Very sick he got up one morning and ignored me. No visual contact, no words to me and ignoring my words to him. Avoiding my touch. Nothing... I had become a ghost.

I would rather be tossed out in the icy yard and hosed till wet and left to freeze, rather be drawn and quartered, rather be fed to crocodiles, rather be burned alive, poisoned, or thrown off a building.

then be ignored.

In 12+ years of marriage that morning stands alone. That is the only time my husband has ever hurt me.

We are all lucky I didn't wind up dead that day. Triggered to a point of wanting to end my life, all that stopped me was the 3 month old fetus floating unaware in my uterus.

My children accidently tripped that mercury switch in my soul two summers ago. They locked the garage door as they went back in the house. I finished up the laundry and headed in.

as soon as that knob didn't rotate I was four years old. The panic instantly immersing  me downing out my terrified screams. I am sure they were scarred themselves when they responded to the frantic pounding and kicking on the door and opened it to find this crazy bawling woman screaming "DON'TLOCKMEOUTDON'TLOCKMEOUT!"

I will never heal from this pain. Its is not possible to fix some things.

The removal of the message board moderator has agitated this wound.

My rational mind knows my old friend's job has changed and she is not ignoring me. But the not knowing, or closure from her "kidnapping" has me deeply saddened inside my messed up head.

Do I declare her dead and grieve and move on...or do I do what I did endlessly as a child, hold out hope that someday...someday she will see me.

That moderator in the years she has known me has given me more compassion and love then mama has done in 47 years. This kidnapping of her is more then just a co-worker switching jobs, or a friend moving away. This person can't have contact with us. There is no way for her to tell us what happened, or for us to ever know, and that creates a strange paradox of pain.

If I were a normal person, I could deal with this loss in my life.

but I am not

I am a time traveler hurled thought time and I am screaming and clawing at the door, and being ignored.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Animals Playing

Here it is.

This is the first piece of my works that was ever published. It so captivated the publisher of it, that he held onto it for many years until he had the medium at his disposal to publish it.

He is my first fan. His name was Kurt Isert. A writer like myself. A neighbor boy who grew up with me. He died ~12 years ago. He never got to see or read anything of mine beyond high school. He missed reading my greatest works.

Doesn't matter. He saw the writer in me and talent there.

How I am not sure.

Circa 1976 - second grade (six years old)

Animal playing

The big dog and a cat eat cake
a little boy caught the cat
a man caught the dog.
The horse eats grass and the rat eats cheese
and the girl's cat peeped at the mouse.

Monday, January 14, 2013


She waded out into the sea and stood

the lulling waves rocked her gently comforting her

The sun warmed her

the earth held her

but yet still the tears came

Her heart was open and full of this sadness

Where it came from she did not know

How to get it to go she did not know

Next to her a woman stood

"knee deep in the blue are ye?"

"What?" she asked

"knee deep in the blue" the woman answered and slid her arm around her shoulder. "Dear one we are women, we hold within us many mysteries and many lives. We are more spiritually aware then our counter parts. Our hearts hold the hopes and dreams of ourselves and our children born and unborn. We by nature stand knee deep in the blue."

She waited for the woman to continue.

"Sometimes when we are happy and things are going well and our wings unfold and we are getting ready to fly, we step into the blue....its like a rain shower of tears that sprinkles down and washes sadness into our hearts."

"But where does it come from? It caught me out of the blue..." she paused herself mid thought, it suddenly making sense, "Out of the blue...into its some cosmic sadness that I am tapping into?"

"you are tapping into you. You are healing and growing and feeling a special feeling one that most people shrugg off or medicate away. You are feeling life. That some days you step into the blue and life is so beautiful and special it takes your breath away and leaves tears in your heart. You cry tears for the times you couldn't see the gift you have and for those are not yet where you are. Your feeling the emotion of healing."

"well it s a bit unnerving" she replied, "makes me feel like something is wrong."

The woman gave her shoulder a squeeze, "you will get used to it. Soon you will recognize this feeling for what it is...peace, love and compassion all rolled up into one....soon you will learn how to let it out in the form other than tears. It will not hurt you, you just have never been this deep in the blue before." she let go and dove under the sea and swam away.

the lulling waves rocked her gently comforting her

The sun warmed her

the earth held her

but yet still the tears came

She had just thought it was sadness in her heart...know she knew

It was the blue

and it would not drag her down, but lift her up, and connect her to all that was true.

(c) Oct 17, 2007

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Fragile flower

It was a nodding-gunna-fall asleep spring day
when he first saw her.
A fragile flower
pale and weak
slightly crushed petals.
Her beauty was
not her condition
but what he saw
the quiet dignity
and grace
that had not been killed
by the feet that tramped her.
She had a defiant stance to her
crooked stalk
even though her face was hidden
and lowered to the earth
He wanted to go over and lay by her
smell her scent
and turn her delicate face to the sun
That's when he twisted and heard the mortar shell
he flung himself to the left
his rifle painfully crushing
his side and he rolled over it
Dazed he looked around
there had never been shelling in this field before
Here he had always
relaxed and let his guard down
The war had invaded his serenity
His training took over
But it didn't help
He stood and ran to the wall to jump it
but a landmine
tossed him off course
He struggled to regain his composure
checked for wounds
His ears still screaming
The dusty haze began to settle in spots
and though it all he saw her
the fragile flower
seemingly oblivious the the madness
about her
He smiled at her strength
her ability to live
day in and day out
amongst the chaos
He was falling in love with this little blossom
She gave him something
something he couldn't describe
The planes did to quick strafing runs
across the field
there zigzag pattern
failed to find him
The nonsensical madness
of finding himself alone in this
battle made him call out
"I will protect you my dear!"
and he started towards her
The razor wire he didn't see
his skin felt it first
its anger slashes
halting his advances
Defeated he laid face down it the dirt
his bloodshot eyes weary
started to droop
that's when he saw the space under the wire
just big enough for his arm
he reached under and for her
he was just close enough to lay his open hand into her shadow
For a long time he laid there
hand extended to her
Sometimes the wind blew her away from him
her face turned away
sometimes she leaned closer
almost touching his hand
The war raged on and on
He waited patiently
"I am not going anywhere" he would murmur in his sleep
"I am here for you"
That morning he felt moisture dripping
into his hand
dew forming on her was gathering into crystal tears and weeping into his hand
The wire was gone and the shelling had moved off over the next hill
but still he didn't move
The sun awoke the valley
and laid a warm blanket over
his aching body
He opened his eyes and caught a glimpse
of a magical sight
the fragile flower was looking at him
he smiled
Loving a fragile flower is hard indeed
The temptation was to grab her and sweep her up to safety
but instead he adjusted himself
and extended his other hand to her
She trembled in the breeze
seemingly thinking about
the hands near her
he waited
and before long she leaned into his embrace
He steady her but did not hold her
In this safety she blossomed
into a precious flower who's beauty
took his breath away.

(c) 1-18-2006

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Attic Chairs

Up in the attic she climbed one day.
Shoulder to the door she grunted and pressed.
The hinges groaned and moaned.
The dusty door swooned in.
Hidden inside were a herd of old chairs.
All broken and bent.

She carried them down two at a time.
To the bright lights of the dining room.
Her trips numbered past twenty before she was done.
She was a sight, with her hair covered with a kercheif of cobwebs.

The chimes rang on the back door as her brother came in.
"Oh goodness, let me get the truck to haul this trash away for you."

She waved brother away, never taking her eyes off the chairs.
"There is no junk in here, only hurt souls. Y
ou must look past the chipped and scarred surface to see the beauty of the grain underneath."

Brother pressed a chair and it squealed under his touch swaying dangerously. "This one is no good, will never hold anyone."

She looked at him from over her glasses as she brushed the web from her hair. "who said, it had to hold someone, maybe it is meant to dump a smart arse on their arse."

He took the hint and left her to her work.

She sang as she warmed the water and began washing the chairs.
She sang ancient mermaid songs she learned in her dreams.
As her hands passed over the wood she got to know each chairs
strengths and weakness.

She spoke to each chair as she gently wash and rinsed it.
"Together we will find out where you belong."

"Look here," she smiled, as her fingers danced over a prickly spot on the great oak chair. "Puppy teething I imagine."

She shook her head at the thought of someone tossing out this majestic chair over such a small thing.

"Don't worry, she consoled the chair, "You are not being discriminated against, people treat other people with the same callous disregard too."

When at last the chairs were washed she set them in a giant circle to dry.

With rolled up sleeves she set about rubbing oil into each chair.

The work was long and tiresome but she didn't mind, it filled her mind with purpose. One by one the chairs began to sing.
The wood glowed and the grain patterns stood out like lightning against a black sky.

The scars in the wood told many tales. 

There was gum under the seats and few cryptic messages scrawled here and there.

She listened to it all.

All of it, even the dark stories they had to tell.

Once oiled she carried them outside, two by two.
Her trips numbered past twenty before she was done.
She arranged them in a serpentine pattern on the rich green grass.
It had been years and years since the chairs had last seen the bright sun.

My what a sight to see they were!
She smiled and walked around and around them as if playing musical chairs.

Her mother called from the window, interrupting her dance.
"If you are done messing with that useless junk I need you to do some real work."

She halted stunned, slapped by her words.
The music in her heart skipped a beat and stopped.
Her shoulders slumped.

She looked at her reflection in the polished dark wood.
Such beauty there in the wood, if only her mom could see.

"Pile that rubbish by the shed so Dad can haul it away" Mom said disappearing back into the house.

Her trips numbered past twenty before she was done.

When at last she was done she returned inside.
She sat at the table and waited for her life to happen to her.

She didn't have to wait long.

It all happened at once. Brother sat down to join her
and the chair pitched and bucked and he flew to the floor.

Dad opened the paper and leaned back to flop into his easy-chair,
only to do a somersault over the small broken chair there.

Mother screamed as she sat on the vanity chair and the sharp splintery wood gouged a divot in her backside.

She smiled and got up. "I am tired of being invisible in this house! In this life! My family treats me furniture  I think you will toss me out when I am broken and scarred."

They gathered and took note the good kitchen chairs were all gone, replaced with the attic chairs.

"Family I need to know you love me, need to know you understand the complexities of my head." She sobbed. "Stop raising me, I am grown. I am way past childhood, I need to know more. I need to know you love me." She echoed. 

There was deafening silence.

"How do we do that?" Asked Mom. "I tell you I love you all the time."

She reared up, "You tell me go to bed, you tell me go to school, you tell me to eat, you tell me to do this, you tell me to do that, you tell me you love me too, as if it is just another chore on the list, just another sound track in your head. I am learning who I am, I am discovering the depth of my mind and emotions, I feel alone in this journey. I do not feel connected with the family or anyone for that matter. I feel like no one knows me...really knows me."

Slowly her family sat in the freshly washed chairs and rested their hands on the table. 

"I feel like an orphan in my own family. We are all strangers here. We are polite and pleasant, and speak to each others surface, DARN IT! SPEAK TO ME, the me inside, the me who is struggling and grappling with these emotions. Stop being pleasant and start being real. You can show me you love me by opening your heart and listening to me. Just listen. Make and effort to get to know me. Find out about my hopes and fears. I need to feel needed, and accepted for who I am, not who you want me to be."

She waited for an answer.

It wasn't the answer she was wanting.


Dad eyed her. "So what is for dinner? Your cooking tonight arn't you?"

Brother grabbed his jacket and bailed out the door.

She stood there frozen. Had she not spoken aloud? "PEOPLE, did you not hear me?!"

"Quite being so dramatic. Life isn't about you." Said her mom, as she headed out to rescue her furniture.

She sat gently down upon the old chair. "I feel like a chair. I feel like I was once a mighty tree that was fell, My good parts cut away and sold, the inferior parts bent and twisted and forced to conform to a pattern, just to please the long as I am useful and pretty I am taken care of. Once I change and develop my own characteristics, I am sold or toss out. We are not a family...we are a matched set of furniture." 

Dad puts his hand across the table and takes her.

She smiles glad she finally got through.

He presses a 50 dollar bill in her hand, "If you arn't cooking then order pizza"

Her trips numbered past twenty before she was done.
She and the chairs simply just vanished.
Like a ghost she haunted the house.
No one saw her, and no one noticed she was missing.
It ate holes in her heart that no one cared.

When she came of age she simply stepped out one day,
not really knowing where she was going.
Like a long caged bird she just saw the open door and flew.
Her family didn't even wave goodbye.

It was months later that her family spoke of her.
Dad simply mentioned one night "I see she finally got rid of all
those trashy chairs in the attic."

After that she faded from their memories.

Her age numbered past twenty before she was done wandering about. She found a high fortress and barricaded herself in behind a wall of old chairs. She let the chairs get dusty and the rich wood dry out and splinter. It was a formidable fence and no one dared climb it.

The loneliness was profoundly painful.
Sometimes she cut her skin just
to see if she was in.

Sure she worked with people and rode the bus with people,
shopped at stores with people, but no one really saw her.
They just saw her image, just like her family did.
Sure she had friends, but she kept them all at a distance and outside of her chair wall.

The darkness every night amplified the pain.

"I just want someone to need me" she told the chairs. "I know I do not belong to that family, but darn it, I want to belong somewhere."

She grew and ventured out and started therapy. Having someone validate her feelings was a powerful healing step.

"I want my family to come after me!" she sobbed one session.
"I want them to make the effort to contact me and be a part of my life."

Her Therapist stared her down. "can I tell you a secret?" 

She dried her eyes intrigued at the sound of this. "sure"

"One isn't born into a family. One chooses a family."

She pondered this for a moment.

Her Therapist continued. "Your mom and dad found each other and hooked up and created a love seat. T
hey then gave birth to a lazy boy-recliner and a carved cherry-wood elegant 16th century sit-upon. There is no room in any house for that mix and match furniture. You need to find the rest of the set you belong to. Quit trying to fit in there."

"Are you saying that all my wants and needs will never be met by my birth family?"

Her Therapist nodded gently. "what you wish your mom would give you, you will not get from her, but from someone else."

"Is this the way it is for everyone?"

"It is the way for far too many of us." frowned the Therapist.

She found as the years past and she grew and healed, that as the pain lessens she was able to remove some of the protecting chairs from her walls.

No they were not abandoned, but as she extended trust to another they were gifted with a chair. They took the chair as a precious gem and honored the meaning behind it.

Oh on occasion she trusted and gave a chair, only to have the receiver smash and shatter the delicateness of the beauty. But she learned and didn't shut down, just moved on and tried again.

Till at last she sat with only a few chairs between her and world.
She combed her hair and drew it back and once again 

as she had long ago
set out and washed the chairs,
dried them,
singing ancient mermaid songs she learned in her dreams.
She oiled them and carried them out to dry in the sun.

she laid in the grass and marveled at the sheer beauty of her attic chairs. The light of the sun warmed her skin.
But it also revealed the scars.

She was no different than the scarred chairs who surrounded her.
They were all waiting silently for someone to bring them home.

She smiled. Really smiled. Realizing for the first time. She was at peace within herself.

She heard Therapist's words echoing in her heart. "It is the way for far too many of us." 

"I will fix that." she said aloud to the chairs, her heart aching with compassion. 
"if we are all looking for our family, If we are all drifting in this sea of loneliness, and disconnectedness, then I will fix it."

She sat up and gathered her chairs and set off into life once again.
Her trips numbered past seven before she was done.

She was true to her word. Though she couldn't fix the problem itself.

She offered a chair to all she met. 

a place to sit
a moment of her time.
an ear to listen,
a hand to hold.

She simply treated all she met and in countered as if they
were family.

Her heart began to lighten and see the simple beauty in all she met.
Some were her family for only a moment.

The sad little girl with the hungry eyes in the grocery store she smiled at.

The tried old man on the bus she sat next to and listed to a a few blocks.

The exhausted mother in line at the grocery store she spoke to.

By giving she received. By being willing to risk she gained. She began to collect treasure more valuable than any tangible item on earth. She was collecting moments with other.

He came on day and stared for a long time at her chairs. "I see one I must have" he said to her.

He weaved through the chairs and took her into his arms.
"I need this one to complete my set." he said

She was frightened for a moment, "but I am scarred and I have rough edges and...and ..."

"And," he finished for her, "you are afraid of the unknown."


He turned and gestured behind him. She peered over his broad shoulder.

He had is own pile of attic chairs too.

"the way I see it," he gently smiled, "is that you are coming home."

She was no longer afraid. He was choosing her, and she choose him.

Their trips numbered past twenty before they were done.
Then they took one trip down an isle.
Their house was filled with many attic chairs
all polished and shining
and there never was a lack of souls to sit upon them and share the
journey of life with them.