flashback.

“I say ‘should be’; because it is not everyone, nor perhaps anyone, who is so careful of his language as to use no word till he views in his mind the precise determined idea which he resolved to make it the sign of. The want of this is the cause of no small obscurity and confusion in men’s thoughts and discourses.”

I know there are not words enough in any language to answer all the variety of ideas that enter into men’s discourses and reasonings.” (2155)

someday life will be sweet like a rhapsody...
when i paint my masterpiece.

Today while I was driving I had one of those memories that creep out of the back of your mind and present themselves with a sudden 'ta-da!' of clarity that you wonder how it was that this particular memory had ever escaped your conscious thought. I'm 14 again. I have braces and scrawny, awkward limbs that I never can seem to control. I spend every day of my life cleaning my mom's house and watching my almost 2 year old brother, feeding him, cleaning his room, cooking for him, doing his laundry, entertaining him... It's summertime. He's colicky and won't go down for his nap. The bottle won't work. The binky won't work. He takes it out of his mouth and throws it at me every time I put it near him. With an odd disconnected feeling, I recall wondering why he always let me give it to him before yanking it out of his mouth to throw at me. Why waste the energy of accepting it? Then again, I never read anywhere that toddlers were generally considered to be logical persons. His tummy hurts and he fitfully rubs his chubby hands against his cheeks in exhaustion. They're red and swollen, his eyes squidgy lines drawn into his howling expression. Putting in a cd of lullabies I scoop him up, rest his sweaty cheek on my shoulder, and dance him to sleep...

I'm 16. He's three and into everything. It's almost Halloween. The fall crisp has overtaken everything and the grass crackles underneath my feet every time I step outside. The days are long and golden, the sunlight warming everything it touches while the shadows hold the chill. Leaves cover the backyard like a vintage carpet of oranges and yellows. The last of my pink roses have withered, all that remains are sad reminders of their final bloom. He has just come in from running around in the yard and his face is rosy and delighted. He giggles and toddles his way to me at the computer desk. I'm listening to some bubble gum love song and eating out of a bag of carrots. Without asking he pulls himself up onto my lap and leans back against me, wrapping his baby hands around my arms as my fingers fly over the keys. kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk. He tries to help me type and pushes buttons at random, sending instant messages that resemble Russian poetry. ASBK

Jkd998888e4lkl.!
wekr

,

A happy song comes on. Something loud and catchy. Suddenly, I jump out of the chair and hurl him into the air, brushing the tips of his auburn curls against the dust on the ceiling fan. He lets out a belly laugh that fills the room. I grab his hand and play waltz him through the kitchen, down the hallway in and out of the bedrooms, past the bathroom door and the full length mirror. We smile at ourselves and the pretty picture we make as we breathlessly swoop past. Around and around the living room, faster and faster. Around the ottoman. Over the armchair. Across the couch. Back through the kitchen and once more down the hall...

The song is over. It's time to go to sleep. I lock the house and carry him to my bedroom. I'm afraid a little, of the darkness outside and being in charge of the sleeping household. I run back to the kitchen and grab a steak knife out of the silverware drawer. Knowing even as I grabbed it that anyone who really wanted in the house would be strong enough to fight off my puny tool. Still, I grab it anyway. It makes me feel better. Funny, it's a habit I've never gotten out of. It's almost midnight, I have school in the morning, and I have to take him to daycare before class. I lay out his clothes for the next day, put my half finished math homework in my back pack, and hope that I'll have enough time to finish it during history. He's already half asleep, curled up in a warm little bundle in the middle of my bed. I turn the radio on low, turn the lights off, and climb into bed.

I am happy.


...

I've created a fantasy world inside my head that has slowly become a reality. But the more I find it, the less I seem to want it. What sense does that make?????