In South America, truck drivers are paid collossal amounts
of money, to deliver supplies between towns on
roads, no wider than the width of their trucks.

When you turned up on my doorstep that sunday in the rain,
your eyes told me before your lips did.

Sixty three hundred days is a long long time to wait for someone,
but I would do it all over again,
if it meant I could fall asleep in your arms one last time.

Next Autumn when the leaves turn rusty and fall from the trees,
I'll remember the afternoon we spent in Victoria park,
where you waded to the middle of the duckpond,
just because I said you wouldn't.

Your mother always told me when we stacked away the good china after Sunday lunch,
that your stubborness always got in the way of what was right.

You've been gone eight hours and still nobodies reminded me how difficult I can be at times.

Eight months later and everytime the phone rings I imagine your voice crackling down the line "come get me from the supermarket, I have sugar buns. "

Knee length skirt, cotton cami,
lace shrug, and heels.
All black.
Fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes. Very pretty.
My children edge past her, past the Other Women,
on their way to the park.
Son takes a second look, then hurries on. Vans squeak
through sodden grass.
Baggy jeans soak up puddles of mud.
Typical twelve-year-old boy.

They return,
plastered in cut-grass, flushed-pink and grinning.
Daughter cradles the ball, and
crows about winning, while
The Pretty One, the Other Women,
alternate tuts with
oh-what-it-is-to-be-youngs
…
but The Pretty One,
she's only
twelve.

I'd heard horror stories in the playground, seen embarrassment and tears.
Shared in secrets that were passed around like candy.

Not for me.
All the messing about and the working it out. I didn't want Bad *** by misadventure.

Like you said.

I waited. Not as long as the good girls, but longer than my mates.

You were worth it.

I was a bundle of nerve endings and inexperience but it was perfect, you were brilliant.
Just the thought of you sends shivers down my spine.

My best kept secret.

I wonder about you, at times. About your life, what you do, if you're happy or feeling blue.

Your children: Would I know them in the street? I guess now they're all grown up.

Just like me.

What if the world were a perfect place
A perfect example of peace
No pandemonium, no evil
Only love, beauty and perfection

What if the world were a dark place
No light or life
Pitch darkness not one feeling of emotion

What if the world were a perfect blend
A balance of dark and light
Between good and bad
Where neither one tipped the scale
What if...

A woman who leaves her children isn’t a mother but a donor,
   egg loaner.

She walked away from us, no longer mother,
  or friend.
     or other.

She never wanted us. Not me, not my brother.
And,
    to be honest,

if I saw her today walking next to a stranger.

I wouldn’t tell one from the other.

I've chosen to spend my life worshiping it.
I used to lay in the sun for hours and let it make me know.
I could never tell anyone what it was, because there aren't words for it.
Sometimes I'd cry because I didn't have enough power over language to explain how I felt.
And then when I grew up, after I'd acquired all these words, I finally realized that I never would.
Joy is a solitary experience for me, like pain.
Because neither can be explained to someone else who hasn't felt MINE.
I miss the me who noticed, who had time to.
My childhood was nothing but a giant discovery of the world.
Good and bad.
And at some point I had the moment when I could have chosen to let the bad spoil the good.
But something, thank god, made me see that they needed each other.
And after that all my joy broke my heart it was so big.
I want the whole world, I want to be the same as it.
Always have. Always hurts, not to be quite close enough.
But the kind of hurt that drives you to do beautiful things.
I don't think I'll ever choose a faith.
My religion is that I am alive
And that the people I love are, fragile as thistledown on the wind, and we were all blown together to the same time and place.

There's a girl in my class named Nicole, who used to act just like every other popular girl.
She wore too much eyeliner and straightened her hair and I always heard the gossip.
I saw her for what she looked like, and I stayed away because I hate the drama that follows the "popular" people like smoke.
But then her father died.
Her mom was already dead, and her father died.
Now she calls herself Cosmic Bliss and wears jeans vests.
She doesn't straighten her hair,
And the other day she got up in front of the class and read her report
And it was all about seeing the world as a gift,
And helping others,
And finding yourself through nature.
I admire her.
She lost everything, and I remember for a long time she was broken.
She didn't look broken when she read that.
I suppose it's like any other faith- has its flaws.
But people are so resilient.
I found myself clapping for her in solidarity, because hey
If your parents die and your life ***** and you get beaten down,
If you want to make flower crowns and call yourself Cosmic Bliss
And preach peace and love and crystals to your peers even when they give you funny looks,
Do it.
I will cheer for you.
I wish I was friends with her.
People do what they have to to live.
Some people.