There are nights made to be written in. Made for the pen to meet the paper, or the pencil or the eraser or whatever it takes to put those words down. There are nights just made for us to pick our memories up by the hands and watch them dance to the rhythm of my arm moving across pages, to the cadence of the remembering of yesterday. Some nights when the pen has to meet the paper so that there can be a moment, just a minute, when my mind can be like a freshly painted city wall, undiscovered by a young graffiti artist and thus uncovered by bright, messy, beautiful words just screaming to be read, crying to be heard. (This might, admittedly, be one of those nights.)

Some mornings, your coffee tastes like sorrow and I’m sorry. Mornings when no amount of sugar helps the memory of yesterday go down. There are mornings which prove that the makeup cannot cover up the marks the angry words you texted out into space made as they made their way to my face. And the hairspray does not help hold it all together on these mornings. But you get up, drink the coffee, three spoonfuls of sugar, please, plenty of cream, tell yourself you look beautiful, and spray that hair within an inch of its life. So that later, when you feel like falling apart, you can reach up and let that hairstyle, which looks just like it did in the mirror this morning, reassure you that some things really do stay the same. (Admittedly, this might be one of those mornings).

There are days that feel lonesome. Days when the weather feels your mood and conjures up some rain clouds and some wind to blow your worries in your face. On these days, you have to put on rubber boots and a warm sweater to cling to comfort in. And if it’s summer time you forgo that sweater, just grab yourself that old t-shirt and swaddle yourself in sweetness for a while. On other days the sun shines brightly and the warmth on your skin makes you smile and the light makes you feel radiant inside. Cherish these days, and make memories of laughter and of music to carry you through the first kind of day, through the worst kind of days. (I’m not quite sure which kind of day today was. Or, admittedly, which kind tomorrow will be.)

Some moments, I am mauled by missing you mightily. There are other moments when I forget all about you, when your name is not in a single space that my mind has made. Other moments still when I realize you’re going, again, tomorrow, and I am happy that you’ll be gone. And I am knowing that folded into this happiness is one of the deepest sorrows I’ve ever known. Because it’s happened again. We’ve broken and busted and buried everything again. And in these conflicted moments I don’t know what to do or how to feel or whether or not I am right. (I must tell you that, admittedly, this could be one of those moments.)

-Jessi Sanders 2012


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