RL Ames Week 148: Another Day

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RL Ames’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Another Day

It’s late. I’ve lost track of the time, but I know it’s late. I can feel it in the weariness of my step and see it in the inkiness of the night around me. I rub my hands together. They’re chapped and cold, but also sort of numb.

Just like the rest of me.

I catch the dim silhouette of my reflection in a storefront pane of glass. I’m hunched over, huddled deep into my coat, but not because of the cold. I’m not hiding from winter. I’m trying to hide from the world.

I reach my building and climb the stairs, relieved to be home, but dreading what waits for me inside.

My apartment is dark and empty. The light switch makes a sharp click as I flick it on. The sound is loud and startling in the silence.

I shrug out of my coat, kick my shoes off, and crawl into bed, still dressed. I bury myself under the heavy blankets and burrow down beneath the pillow. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t stop the barrage of images and memories that begin to play across the theater of my mind. I hear the voices, echoes of the past, in my head, and it doesn’t matter how hard I shove my fingers into my ears, they won’t stop.

I scream into my pillow, trying to drown them out, trying to stop the painful, flickering images of my failures.

My voice is hoarse and my pillow is wet with tears and sweat by the time I drift into a fitful and exhausted sleep. My subconscious knows it’s only a temporary reprieve. Because tomorrow will dawn anew; relentless in its efforts to force me to continue existing. Day after day. I don’t know how much longer I can go on.

xxxx

My brother is lost. Not in the sense of a child who’s wandered away from his mother at the store. He’s lost in the sense that he’s standing right in front of us, and still none of us know where he is. I’d say he’s tortured, but that makes it sound way too chic and trendy. But the reality is: he’s tortured.

He spends each and every day living with pain that the rest of us can’t even begin to imagine. It’s not physical pain. Though, I have absolutely no doubt he feels actual pain.

The worst part is that I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to stop the cycle he goes through. I don’t know how to make him see what the rest of us see.

We go through ups and downs, but it’s always there. Even during the ups the pain, the struggle, the constant war he wages on himself, is always there just below the surface, threatening to break through and drag him back under.

It’s the worst for our mom. I know that deep down she blames herself. As if there was something she could have done differently: breastfed him longer, not let him watch cartoons, given him less sugar. She’s heard it all, and I know she’d go back in time in a heartbeat and try anything to fix him.

But the truth is: he’s always been this way. Even as a child, he’d get overly emotional, and the smallest things affected him so much more than the rest of us. I remember one day when we were younger my dad brought home some pesticide for the ants who had built colonies in the cracks in the cement of our patio. And my brother sat out there on his hands and knees just sobbing as my dad sprinkled the white powder into the cracks. As if he could feel the pain those tiny ants felt as they curled up and died.

xxxx

The sun blinds me before I even open my eyes. It’s a harsh reminder of the new day that’s dawned without my permission. It’s a big bright slap in the face that reminds me that all I really want to do is crawl into the darkness of oblivion and fade to nothing.

Oblivion would be so pleasant.

I stumble out of bed and relieve myself in the bathroom. There’s a flashing light on my machine. I hadn’t even noticed it the night before. Reluctantly, I press the button. My sister’s voice fills the room. She’s worried. They’re all worried. This is nothing new. I wish they’d leave me to my oblivion.

The next voice is my mother’s voice, and I feel the hint of a pang of guilt stab me somewhere in my gut. It’s brief, and it’s gone before I can think about it too much. I’m good at ignoring pain. I’m better at ignoring guilt.

Unbidden, a memory flashes through my head. I’m young. It’s the summer I turned fourteen, and we’re at our family’s lake house. My sister was sixteen that year, and in my memory she’s chasing me down the pier toward the water. The water is crystal clear and the sun glints off of it so brightly it hurts my eyes. We’re laughing and I reach the end of the pier a split second before her. I don’t hesitate. I plunge in, and the water’s so cold it hurts to breathe when I come up. She’s next to me, splashing in the water.

I remember being so happy and peaceful that day at the lake. My stomach does a little flip as I remember why. I was happy because I’d already made up my mind. I was at peace with my decision. That night I’d taken my dad’s hunting knife to my wrists.

It was my sister who had found me.

xxxx

He’s not answering, and that always makes me nervous. I call mom to see if she’s talked to him. When she confirms that he hasn’t called her either, I know what I have to do.

It’s not a long drive over, but it feels like an eternity. My stomach is in knots. I don’t like showing up unannounced at his place. I’ve not had good luck with it in the past. But then again, he’s still here, so maybe I have.

The thing about it is this: people think that to have the kind of issues my brother has you have to have dealt with some hardcore horrible traumatic events. Have to have some sort of horrid past or childhood that scars you for life. But that isn’t the case with him.

We had a normal upbringing. Loving parents, lots of hugs. Nothing even close to abusive. Our parents didn’t deprive or entitle us. We took family vacations, went to Disneyland, dad took us fishing, mom helped us with homework. All the ordinary stuff.

There’s no reason he shouldn’t be normal. Except for the chemicals in his brain. They don’t like to play nice.

I’m a ball of nerves as I knock on his door. I finger the spare key in my pocket, dreading using it if he doesn’t answer. But I know I will if I have to. I just pray I’m not too late.

Relief floods through me when he answers. He looks like hell. There are bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair is greasy and falls too long across his forehead.

I don’t know what I see in his eyes when he sees me. Relief? Disappointment? Anger? Sadness?

I push my way in anyway. Loving him means accepting the selfishness of his disease. He doesn’t mean to push everyone away. He doesn’t mean to hate all of us for loving him.

I open his refrigerator and make a note of its contents. I’ll restock it for him later.

He shrugs when I ask him how he is. He turns away when I get closer, but I grab his wrist, my fingers unconsciously skimming across the rough scar tissue there. I make him look at me. I study his eyes for a few moments before he turns away again.

I promise him I’ll come back later that night, and he shrugs again.

I don’t know what the answer is to the quandary that is my brother. I don’t have long-term solutions, and every time I see him, I’m reminded that it might be my last. But as I close the door behind me, I’m safe in the knowledge that he’s lived to see at least one more day. And for him, that’s as much as he can give.

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RL Ames spends her time chasing after her almost four year old son and sneaks in time for writing whenever she can. She can be found at rlames.weebly.com

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RL Ames Week 144: Free to Soar

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RL Ames’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Free to Soar

He gazes down at her sleeping form, her shoulders lifting and falling slightly with each breath. He wants to reach out and touch her, stroke her hair, but he’s afraid of waking her. Her dark hair splays out across her pillow, and he thinks, not for the first time, about how small she seems next to him.

She sighs a deep shuddering sigh in her sleep, and his heart clenches a little. He wonders if she’s dreaming, and if her dreams are peaceful. Or are they an extension of her life: tormented, troubled? He hopes with every fiber of his being that she finds peace in her dreams. The peace that seems to evade her so skillfully in her waking moments.

It’s like she’s a bird. small, easily frightened, never quite able to sit still.

He’s tried his best to be her safe haven; a place where she can weather the storms life throws at her. And in moments like this--when she seems so at peace--he thinks he just may be succeeding. But then she’ll awaken, and that same haunted look will return to her eyes, and his heart will sink because he’ll know that he’s failing her.

Because the truth is, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he works to convince her that her cage door is open and she’s free to fly away and be free whenever she wants, she’s too terrified to let herself soar. She’s shackled by her own fear, and he cannot find the key.

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RL Ames spends her time chasing after her almost four year old son and sneaks in time for writing whenever she can. She can be found at rlames.weebly.com

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RL Ames Week 140: This Old House

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RL Ames’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: This Old House

It’s been empty for years. The walls are bare, cracked, and peeling, but they still hold within them the memories of what once was.

There’s nothing but moth eaten curtains hanging on the dirty windows now, but you can almost imagine how they used to move in the breeze of a warm summer day.

In the kitchen, there was once a great oak table. It easily held ten people, and often did. There were dinners, card games, family meetings: all held around that table. Now it’s just an empty patch of cracked and stained linoleum, the flower pattern long since outdated.

Stained and moldy carpet covers the floor of the living room now, but once it bore the tread of a worried father pacing the floor, anxious for his daughter’s safe arrival home.

Up the stairs, the third one still creaks, there’s the old bathtub. It’s chipped and stained beyond repair now, but it used to be the most magnificent gigantic swimming pool, complete with rubber ducks, tug boats, and a little diver who kicked his legs and swam all the way from one side to the other.

And the big bedroom, the one at the end of the hall, once held a majestic four poster bed. It’s gaunt and sad now, but there are hints of what once was. There are still whispers of the pillow fights and scary stories that were told under the cover and safety of giant homemade quilts.

The porch is a mass of rotting wood now, but it was once the scene of many an afternoon tea party. The overgrown weeds stretch across the once pristine lawn, but at twilight, if you squint your eyes just right, you can see the zipping and zooming of fire flies who dance, just out of reach of chubby little hands.

When the wind blows drifts of snow across the yard on a winter day, you can almost feel the cold bite of snowballs that once whipped through the air as they were released by tiny mitten-covered hands.

The old house sits, neglected and forgotten now, but it knows. It remembers the family it raised. Their lives are forever etched in it’s old bones and in the very soul of this old house.

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RL Ames spends her time chasing after her almost four year old son and sneaks in time for writing whenever she can. She can be found at rlames.weebly.com

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RL Ames Week 138: Mine

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RL Ames’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Mine

I know him. I’ve spent hours learning him, memorizing him.

He’s mine.

I watch him. He’s ignoring me. Not on purpose, just because he’s busy. I can tell you everything he’s going to do, every move he’ll make, even before he does it. He stretches, and I watch the long, tight lines ripple under his skin. He rolls his shoulders twice and let’s out a deep breath, fingers flexing as he gets ready.

He bends slightly, settling the bar across his shoulders, wiggling back and forth a little, adjusting until it’s just right. He strains as he takes the full weight of the bar and rises.

He’s a masterpiece, and watching him, I feel like I always do. Excited, possessive.

He does three reps, his usual, and then sets the bar down. He’s rolling his shoulders and pacing around. I know what he’s doing. He’s psyching himself up for more.

I want to help. I want to tell him he can do it. I want to be the encouragement he needs. But I can’t.

Because as much as I tell myself he’s mine, he’s not. I’ve spent hours watching him, studying him, but he doesn’t even know my name.

I sigh as I wipe down the treadmill and head for the locker room.

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RL Ames spends her time chasing after her almost four year old son and sneaks in time for writing whenever she can. She can be found at rlames.weebly.com

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RL Ames Week 136: A Plan Too Late

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RL Ames’s Picture Choice:

Title:



There’s a calm that only comes at a certain time of night. It’s after the check-in rush, and before the lounge and bar area get really busy. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s not exactly peaceful--nothing around here is ever peaceful. But it’s as close as this place ever comes. It’s during this time one evening that I see her for the first time. I’m heading back to the lobby after delivering some towels, and she’s suddenly just...there. Well, that’s not exactly true. I didn’t trip over her or run into her like you see in movies, but I might as well have. As soon as I see her, I can’t take my eyes off of her.

She’s walking along the edge of the pool. The first thing I notice about her is how devastatingly beautiful she is. She’s flawless. Her hair is dark and tucked up into some sort of elaborate bun, but I can tell it’s long. Her feet are bare, her sandals dangle from her little finger, and she’s staring out across the calm water of the empty pool.

The second thing I notice about her is the aura of absolute and unmistakable sadness that seems to surround her. Even from a distance, it’s almost palpable.

I move a little closer, pulling a towel out of my back pocket and pretending to wipe down one of the glass-topped tables that sit scattered across the poolside deck, but I’m watching her the entire time.

She reaches the steps near the shallow end, and lifting her long dress in one hand, she points her toes and drags one foot across the water, disturbing its still surface and sending little ripples across to the other side.

For a moment, I think she’ll step down, maybe wade in the shallow end for a bit like some guests like to do. Maybe she feels my gaze, because a moment later her eyes find mine, and I’m caught red handed, staring at her. My face feels hot, and I think she’ll probably give me an annoyed look before stalking off in disgust, but she doesn’t. The smallest of smiles plays at the corners of her mouth, and she lifts her empty hand, slowly, hesitantly, and gives me a little half wave. I grin back at her and wonder if I should approach her. But before either of us have time to think about it any more, there’s a shout from across the courtyard.

It’s a man’s voice, and a word I don’t understand, but her head snaps up immediately, and she takes a step back from the water’s edge. It’s another moment before I see him, but when he emerges from between two potted palms, he’s barreling toward her. He stops just short of her, and he’s huge. She’s suddenly tiny in comparison to his hulking form.

His words are foreign, but I don’t need a translator to understand they’re harsh, unkind, loud. She drops her eyes back down to the water and doesn’t raise them again.

He reaches down and takes her by the arm, I move to stop him, but freeze at the last minute. What would I say? Would I even be understood? It’s not my place to rescue this beautiful stranger. But I want to. I want to step in more than I’ve ever wanted anything else in my life. I’m stuck in an internal tug-of-war, and then they’re gone. He’s pulling her behind him, and I lose sight of them as they disappear into the elevator.

I head back to the front desk, but I can’t stop thinking about her. I wish I knew what room she was in so I could look up how long they’re staying or find out more about her--anything. But I don’t. I have no information. I find excuses to loiter around the pool area as much as possible, hoping she’ll wander back down and wade in the pool again. I’m ready to give up, and my shift’s almost over. The elevator dings softly, and suddenly she’s there standing in front of me. Her hair’s down now, and I was right. It’s long and wavy.

I open my mouth to speak, not completely sure what to say. But before I can get out even a syllable, she’s there. Her lips find mine, and I gasp a little in surprise. But I don’t fight it, not even a little. My hands find their way into her hair, and I’m kissing her back, her lips soft beneath mine.

The kiss seems to last forever, and only a second all at the same time. When it’s over, I’m left breathless and slightly dizzy. She steps back and looks at me. Her dark eyes are mischievous, and for a moment, the sadness she seems shrouded in is all but gone. She licks her lips as if she’s still trying to taste me. I groan and want to reach for her and pull her close to me again.

But then she’s gone. I swear to you, before I can get my feet under me, or even blink, she’s gone. It’s as if she was never even there, and I’m left wondering if I imagined the entire thing. I’m still not entirely sure as I head home.

...

Morning comes early, and the sun is blinding as it bounces off the huge plate glass windows that cover the front of the hotel. But despite the early hour, I’m up cheerful. I’m a man with a plan. I’m determined to find out more about her today. What’s her story? Why is she so sad, and who is the caveman who practically threw her over his shoulder last night? Why did she kiss me? I’m determined to find out as much as I can.

I’m almost to the front desk before I notice anything odd. But then I see them. Guys in uniforms milling around looking official and busy.

They’re quiet, discreet, but there’s interviews to be conducted, and statements to be made. A body. Found early this morning by one of the landscapers. A jumper? An accident? It’s too early to tell.

I shudder and shake my head as I take out my morning paperwork. Sad.

It’s not very much later when I hear them coming. The utilitarian wheels squeak loudly on the expensive marble. The plain stretcher seems so out of place amongst the opulence of the richly appointed lobby. Next to me, my boss curses quietly and mutters about having asked them to use the back exit. She hurries out from behind the desk to intervene. A short, quiet, but intense argument follows.

I try to busy myself with my paperwork. I don’t want to get in the way. One of the uniformed men tries to push past my boss. It happens quickly. I look up just as the white sheet that covers the body slips, and suddenly my head swims.

It’s her. I just catch the smallest glimpses of her face, but the movement of the gurney causes some of her long hair to spill over the side, and I’m sure it’s her.

I clench the counter, trying desperately to keep myself upright, and I know I’m going to be sick.

I flee to the bathroom, which isn’t hard to do since everyone else is still engaged in their heated debate. I lock myself in a stall and put my head between my knees.

I think back to the night before, to the man she’d argued with, to the stolen kiss we’d shared. What happened? How long after I left her did this happen? Was there something I could have done? I have no answers. I had a plan, but I’m too late. She’s gone from my life before she was ever really in it.

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RL Ames spends her time chasing after her almost four year old son and sneaks in time for writing whenever she can. She can be found at rlames.weebly.com

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RJ Ames Week 134: You

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RL Ames’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: You

It’s the little things now. The rituals that keep me sane. The slosh of a tea bag as it’s dunked up and down in hot water. The sorting of laundry into color piles. The swish of the windshield wipers as they clear away the rain when I drive to the market. The click of the remote as three hundred and forty two channels flash in front of my eyes. These are the things that make sense. This is what my life has become.

I don’t think. I don’t remember. I don’t reminisce fondly. It’s too painful, and it costs me too much. I wake up. Dunk, dunk dunk. I sort. Whites, colors, darks. Wash, rinse, repeat. Click, click, click.

That’s all I can handle. Because if there’s anything else. If I pause, even just for a moment, you come rushing back in. When given even the briefest of opportunities, the memory of you kicks down the door of my mental reserves, and you’re everywhere. And when you’re everywhere, I’m nowhere. I’m curled up in a ball just trying to survive until you leave me again.

So I can’t. I can’t think about any of it. I can’t remember the Sunday mornings we spent in bed sharing the paper. I don’t think about the walks we’d take on crisp winter mornings, trudging through frozen fields and orchards, or how we’d get so cold I’d swear my fingers were going to fall right off, but you’d just laugh and take my hands between your own and blow your warm breath over my fingers.

And I definitely can’t recall the summer we spent in Europe. How we explored castles so ancient and enormous we’d get lost in them for hours, our voices echoing off the great stone walls as we laughed and chased each other in some sort of grownup game of hide and seek. There were the lazy afternoon boat rides we took along sluggish and muddy rivers whose names we could never pronounce. You’d sigh and lean back, the sun glinting off your skin as if you were born of bronze instead of flesh, and I’d wish for the day to never end.

But they did end. Everything ended.

Do you still remember? Does it feel like a piece of your soul has been torn away, and where it used to be there’s now just a festering wound? Does it feel like there’s nothing in the world, no salve or balm anywhere, that will ever make it better?

Because no matter how hard I try. No matter how securely I bare the door where those memories and those thoughts of you live, you always find your way in.

Dunk. Dunk. Swish. Swish. Click. Click.

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RL Ames spends her time chasing after her almost four year old son and sneaks in time for writing whenever she can. She can be found at rlames.weebly.com

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RL Ames Week 132: The Last Leaves of Summer

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RL Ames’s Picture Choice: One

Title: The Last Leaves of Summer

She sighs and looks down at him. The warm breeze catches and lifts his hair. The sun is dappled across his face, and his eyes are closed. This moment is perfect, and she wishes she could freeze time and keep everything just this way forever.

She reaches down and brushes the hair out of his face, and his eyes flutter open. He smiles, and she can’t help but smile back.

“Are you hungry?” she asks. He looks past her, and it’s as if the brilliant sky reflecting in his eyes makes them even bluer.

“Maybe a little,” he says, stretching and yawning before pushing himself up and lifting his head from her lap.

She watches as he crawls to the basket and pulls out the bunch of grapes she’d packed earlier. He pops one in his mouth and then turns to grin at her.

She smiles back, but inside she can’t help but feel a little sadness. How has so much time passed already? She blinks back the tears she feels welling up behind her eyes. She can’t let him see her cry. Not again. “So are you ready? For tomorrow, I mean,” she asks, desperate to lighten her own mood. He chews thoughtfully for a moment before answering. He’s so deliberate lately. Has he always been that way? She can’t remember.

“I think so…” His answer is slow, and he stares off into the distance as he speaks.

“Are you nervous?” she asks.

This time he looks at her as he answers, but not before rolling his eyes. “No!” he scoffs. “Okay, okay,” she holds her hands up in mock surrender, and she’s laughing, but she can’t help but feel the dull ache that’s settled into her chest.

She’s injured his pride now, and he’s quiet again. The only sound is the breeze rustling through the trees above them. She wants to ask him more questions, but she doesn’t know what else to say.

The minutes stretch out in silence, but she doesn’t mind. He’s focused on something in the distance, or maybe he’s focused on nothing at all. Either way it gives her the chance to watch him openly.

When did he change so much? It seems there are lines and angles to his face that weren’t there the last time she looked at him. She silently curses time again, while at the same time pleading for it to just stand still a little while longer.

She shivers. The breeze that warmed them just a short while ago has turned chilly, and she’s reminded that summer’s almost over. Already the leaves on the trees overhead seem duller and maybe a few shades darker than the brilliant green they’d been all summer. It seems time stands still for no one or nothing.

“I’m gonna go inside.” His voice pierces her reverie and she smiles and nods. He leaps to his feet, and she’s reminded again of how cruel time can be. Suddenly he’s gone, and she’s alone gathering up their picnic supplies.

She sighs as she shakes out the blanket, the leaves that have fallen there taking flight once more before drifting to the ground.

...

The next morning is busy and chaotic. It’s good because it means she doesn’t have too much time to think. It’s not until they’re in the car, inching forward in the line of waiting cars that she has a moment to catch her breath. She wonders if the occupants of the other cars feel as panicked as she feels, being there in that moment.

She parks, and he looks over at her.

“You’re parking?”

“You don’t want me to?” Her heart aches as he rolls his eyes and shrugs.

They’re silent as they walk together. She can almost feel the excited energy coming off him, and her stomach does a little flip. Is he really so excited to leave her? She wants to say something, but she feels flustered and doesn’t know quite what to say. It feels like everything between them is going to change in the next moment.

Their destination looms ahead. It’s a brightly colored doorway that looms larger until finally they’re in front of it. Suddenly she decides she doesn’t care what he thinks anymore. She reaches out and grabs his hand. He looks at her for a moment, eyes wide. The shock is evident on his face, but he doesn’t pull away and she takes a small measure of comfort in that.

“Well,” she says, doing her best to smile bravely. “This is it.”

He nods, and she can tell that even though he’s trying to hide it, he’s nervous. Scared even. There’s other people milling around them, but she only has eyes for him. She squeezes his hand and it takes all the strength she possesses to release him as he pulls away gently.

He’s through the doorway and almost out of sight before he turns back. He glances around for a moment, hesitant. Her heart stops as she waits.

“I love you, Mom.”

His voice is low, but it rings loudly in her ears. She grins.

“I love you too, baby. Have a great first day in kindergarten!”

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RL Ames spends her time chasing after her almost four year old son and sneaks in time for writing whenever she can. She can be found at rlames.weebly.com

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R L Ames Week 35: Cigarettes and Aftershave

The lovely R L Ames graces the Daily Picspiration blog today. J B Lacaden will be back in action for Week 37.


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R L Ames’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Cigarettes and Aftershave

Sometimes, when I catch even the faintest of whiffs of that smell, I think of him. I can’t help the way my mind is drawn back to those precious few days we spent together. Before him, I’d found the smell repulsive, but when I met him, suddenly it didn’t seem so bad anymore. I liked the way it clung to him, mingling with his aftershave and soap until it became a smell that was distinctly him.

Sometimes when it hits me unexpectedly, like on a bus or when someone who’s smoking walks past me in the park, I close my eyes and let myself remember. Memories wash over me like waves cresting at high tide, and I can’t help losing myself for a few moments.

I remember the first time I saw him. I’d snuck into a crowded bar with some of my friends after the concert. I was underage, but somehow managed to get my hands on a fake ID. The lights pulsed relentlessly, and the music was so loud I could feel it deep in my chest. I was riding the high of having successfully gotten past the bouncer when I saw him. I couldn’t believe he was there. We’d just spent two hours watching him on stage, and there he was.

He was sitting at the far end of the room, his cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers and adding to the haze that clung to the air like a purple fog. He was flanked on all sides by others who were already just as enamored with him as I would quickly become.

He sat there, taking it all in as if this was his normal everyday scene--and I suppose for him, it was. I’d stared at him, like so many others unable to tear my eyes from his face. But unlike so many others, after a moment, he returned my gaze, his eyes intense and somehow searching, even in the dim light of the bar.

He crooked his finger at me, and from that moment on, I was his. Without another thought, I’d moved closer to him, drawn to his side like a moth to a flame. He’d smiled and my heart had skipped several beats. Somehow he’d managed to make room for me next to him, and it wasn’t long before we were chatting like old friends. As cool and confident as he was, when we spoke, he turned out to be surprisingly grounded and rather unassuming. He told me his name, and we both pretended like I didn’t already know who he was.

That night flew by, and amazingly, he seemed to never want to let me be further than arm’s reach from him. All the other adoring girls who’d surrounded him all night seemed to slowly disappear, until it was just the two of us.

For that weekend, we were inseparable. He was my first in so many ways, and part of me had hoped it would never end. But the other part of me knew that I was living a fairytale that was destined to draw to a close. It was with sadness that he gathered me in his arms that last night and whispered his goodbyes. The tour was pulling out, heading to a new location, and our time together was over.

I closed my eyes and buried my head in his chest, breathing deeply. It was as if I thought that I could take a piece of him with me if I tried hard enough. And in a way, I did. Whenever I catch the smell of cigarettes, I’m reminded of him. And whenever I see him, either on television, or even just pictures of him, that heady mix of soap and aftershave and cigarettes touches my nose, and it feels like a part of him is there with me still.

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R L has always had a love of writing. As a teenager, she dabbled in writing, but found herself sidetracked by many other pursuits. Life happened. She graduated with a Master’s degree in Elementary Education, got married, and taught school for several years before her spark for writing was rekindled.

Now, she spends her time chasing after her almost two year old son and sneaks in time for writing whenever she can. She dreams one day of earning a living from the words she puts on paper, but in the meantime, she’s just having fun stretching her creative muscles in whatever ways she can.

#DailyPicspiration