And then. . .

We walked into the small viewing room. The swell of panic bubbled up into my chest toward my tightly clenched jaw, teeth forced into one another, the urge to run overwhelming. There were no windows in the small beige room, only dim fluorescent lighting that cast shadows across faces and corners.  I willed my feet to move in a forward motion knowing I would regret not seeing her one last time before the cremation. As my family walked forward, I lingered behind my mom and uncle as they broke into tears. My mom’s back heaved up and down and the ache she must have felt escaped with a low unnatural sound. My uncle sniffed and wiped at his checks while standing still and simply staring, his hand rubbing my mom’s back in a counterclockwise circle from time to time  They blocked my view slightly and I stayed back still waiting to see a sign that she was still going to look like my grandma. Finally I stepped forward and looked down at my grandma, sleeping, the sheet from her bed...

today is saturday. a lazy saturday. i woke up with my cat, Drew, curled up next to me, sans alarm, sans my neighbor throwing his trash away as he does every morning at 5am, simply sans. there is nothing lovelier than waking up on your own accord, stretching from fingertips to toe tips and laying quietly with only the sound of your breath.

sometimes when your mind is deliciously empty of words that would have meaning for anyone but yourself, you search into things written in the past, and i stumbled upon an appropriate piece for today. drum beats and rocks gods and shiny things that keep your mind from standing still long enough to make a point. they keep r o l l i n g togetherintomoreandmore until you can't keep track of where you started and where things ended, started... ended. repeat and rinse, but she's still there

At Village Inn, my favorite writing place. This one, is my favorite in the city. Bright orange booths with light fixtures out of Rock Hudson's Pillow Talk, and witty quotes on the wall like, "Never trust a skinny chef."  The cloudy skies stream in through tinted windows and continue to draw me away, seduce me into daydreaming about all the things I should be writing and trips I should be taking and money I need to be saving. So I can go high and low and down below the country's line I have never crossed before.  Then I look back to the screen and I think, Ita, Ita, what do I write about Ita. My thesis, a memoir, and Yeah, my stories are that interesting. There are many, but I need pictures, I need something, because right now they are floating, tiny little words on paper bouncing around outside the atmosphere of my brain.  Oh, there's an art show soon. I should go. It's starting to rain and it makes me think of dancing. Dancing Donna Summer style wi...

There are two types of Sunday afternoons: A. You realize that your weekend is almost over and tomorrow is the beginning of the week. That's right Monday, and with that comes early morning and (hopefully) coffee, work and and and.... B. The lounge-y Sunday afternoon that lets you sleep in, tangled in cool sheets (hopefully), followed by a leisure brunch. Today I am having B. I am having B and completely enjoying it, because although I don 't have a stressful summer I still have things to do like everyone else, but for now, today, I'll enjoy the warm breeze weaving itself though my house through the sliding glass doors, Luna curled up dozing, sunshine making the words I'm typing  brighter and more meaningful, and if needed a conversation, with the one writing sunlit words, as well, in the other room.