On dreams.

I could say once upon a time I had dreams. Dreams of being successful, having a “good job,” finding Mr. Perfect, getting married and having two little babies. Dreams of big nice house, with rolling green grass, gorgeous flower beds and a living room and kitchen to make a magazine jealous.

I never did though.

I never had future dreams. I never dreamed of graduation and college. I never dreamed of jobs and careers and how I would survive in life. I never dreamed of future partners or spouses. I most certainly never dreamed of babies.

I was, to put it simply, impractical.

I dreamed of making art, not necessarily being successful, actually I usually imagined myself poor and bouncing from friend to friend’s houses. I dreamed of dying young and tragically and then, finally, being recognized as the artist I was.

I dreamed of one day finding out that I was something else – a witch, a fairy, a mutant – something magical. I dreamed of having powers and being reclaimed to secret worlds.

I dreamed of aliens and space and the world ending and going to live in the stars.

Years and years later I still dream impractical dreams. I dream big and bold and fantastical dreams. I still dream of magic and adventure. I still dream that one day I will have powers beyond my imagination, wings, or that a man in a blue box will fly me away.

Every so often I tether a few balloons and bring myself down. Then I dream of owning a farm and making yarn. I’ll dream of writing and illustrating children’s books, or even writing just a book. I will dream of selling my art because I can and want to, not from a need. None of these are still the most realistic dreams.

Mostly though, I still just dream of magic and adventure.


in the quiet and the stillness

i miss you most in the quiet and the stillness.
i sit and wait sometimes, forgetting that you won’t be back any minute.
it gets so lonely in the peace.
it leaves me sad. my chest tight.
– my throat constricting.

i am trying to keep it going.
i know this change is for the best.
i know that you would rather be here too.
i know that i will one day adapt.

but these quiet moments are just killing me.

i miss your presence.
i miss laying with the feel of your calloused hand on my waist.
i miss the warmth of you in our bed.
i even miss your snore.

without you it feels like only half of me can function.
like only half of me exists.
my heart vibrates from wails of loneliness
– calling for you to be nearer to me.

not a mistake

there were tears that she cried because she was sure that all of her dreams and plans were being taken from her. and everyone told her that they were disappointed in her mistake.

there was frustration she felt because all of the sudden nobody saw her as who she was. everyone just saw her as the maker of one giant mistake.

there were screams that she heard because she had let everyone down so they needed to now beat her down as well. they screamed how she was a failure and that her baby was a mistake.

there were looks of pity she was given because she used to be so smart and so good. but now she was just another slut who was being punished for making a mistake.

time went by.

in her arms she now held this beautiful, glorious, tiny baby.
not a mistake.

this love that she now felt was beyond anything that she could have ever imagined.
and it was for her baby, not a mistake.

true, this was not the path that she had planned to venture down, or the dreams that she had held dear. but now that she was through the dark of the trail, the nightmare of the start, a new world was before her.
not a mistake.

God, nature or fate – one of them planned this. something this awesome and complete could never have been a mistake. he had been lovingly made perfect inside of her – down to every lash and wrinkle in his lip.
no, he could never be a mistake.

she no longer looks at him and sees the things that she gave up or the woman she could have been. she looks at him, deep at him, and sees love and a future and brand new dreams. she looks at him and sees who she is now compared to who she was then. and it is then that she knows,
this, him, had always been the plan, and was never a mistake.


i remember falling in love

i remember falling in love with a boy who wore glasses.

i do.

i remember where i was and when it was, and how amazing is that?

i was in seventh grade, sitting in math class. coming in the door i sat in the middle of the back row on the left side of the classroom and there was a window right behind me. seventh grade was a hard year for me, i was changing faster than i could keep up with. i didn’t feel twelve. i didn’t feel like a kid, i didn’t feel like a teenager. i felt… confused a good chunk of the time.

it was fall of 1999 and i had gotten this book from my grandmother the christmas before, but i had yet to look at it or read it. she swore up and down that she had only heard good reviews of it, and from everything that she had heard that it would be a book that i would love. i was doubtful of that. true, she knew my taste in books well; for they were very similar to her own, but i was still hesitant. buying and selecting books is a very personal thing. i had gone through all of my books that i knew i loved, and i wanted to try something different, so that day i picked up that book and i stuck it in my backpack to read at school.

i didn’t have a chance to open it and start it until my second period math class. the teacher told us to get out our books, and what we would be going over – and since i have always had a deep and vehement hate of math – i decided that would be a good time to start the book. i sat there, with the sun coming in from the window behind me, the teacher talking some gibberish, and pencils scratching around me and i read…

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number 4, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

and i never looked back.

i don’t think i paid attention to a single class that day, or talked to anyone at lunch. i was sucked in and so in love with this new world that i couldn’t be bothered with the details of this one.

i remember being so relieved when i found out that book two had been released just a few months before so that i wouldn’t have to wait for it. from then until july 2007 i played a long game of hurry up and wait. i would get the new books and hungrily read through them in one or two days and then have to wait and wait endlessly for the next. i remember feeling so sad when i was half way done with the seventh and it dawned on me “this is it, there are no more.”

i got excited for the movies too, of course. but the movies never held that same spark and love for me. i do love them and i gladly sit and have harry potter movie marathons, but the books hold this special, dear part of me.

many teens and kids today who love harry potter just don’t quite understand that. they had this magic and wonder in their lives for almost the whole of them. me? magic entered my life at the same time that it entered harry’s. it was something wholly new and these kids who had to deal with it and experience it  – they were me. they were my age, growing as i grew. their stories were always new, i hadn’t grown up hearing them, or watching the movies. there was no one i knew who even read the books until after the first movie came out. it was this special world of magic, that was just for me. each time i read those books i went to a whole new world that no one i knew had ever experienced or dreamed. kids and teens today, they can’t get that from harry potter, not like i did.

i remember falling in love with a boy who wore glasses. i was twelve and sitting in the sun in the back of class and not learning a whit about math that day.

right here in black and white

i look over and see the curves and softness of you. i could spend hours just staring at your crescent moon of lashes on your cheeks and the way your mouth puckers slightly open while you sleep. i wonder at how even in sleep you always find a way to me. slowly you move and you shift until you end up curled into a ball at my side. and i do the same in my own sleep, i wake and my body is curved around you.

like past love in vintage photographs these are black and and white moments that i store away. i know these moments of love, cuddles, and sweetness will end oh so soon. they will make up only the tiniest fraction of your life and you won’t even remember these moments that have meant the world to me.

but these moments… oh these moments. moments of monochromatic love with you sleeping at my side, hand resting on me, with our breath and heartbeats in sync. these are the memories that i cherish and hold dear.


the smell of onions makes me think of old ladies. two old ladies sitting in the sunshine from the window, together cutting, chopping, and dicing away.

the smell of onions makes me feel young. like a child who is free. free to dream, free to believe. free to be scared, free to be needy. free to be weak.

the smell of onions makes me crave popsicles. pasta. orange soda and chocolate milk. i can almost taste and feel the cold stickiness of a push up pop in my hand.

the smell of onions makes me hear the ghost echoes of over loud televisions. soap operas. cartoons. variety shows. news programs. all at the dull roar of the hard of hearing.

the smell of onions brings me back to a dark hallway and family room. green carpet. cabbage rose print fabric. bright front rooms. to a small cement stoop to sit and rest on.

the smell of onions. a smell that so many dislike. to me the smell of love and childhood and memories.



March 25th A. L. M. Writes March Prompt-A-Day