Trial and Error

"Tomorrow / I'll be stronger / I'm not gonna break down and call  you up / When my heart cries out for you / And tomorrow / You won't believe it / But when I pass your house I won't stop / No matter how bad I want to" -- Chris Young

I was with a friend last week, sitting on my front porch as the sun began to fade. I told her that I had been unable to write. I confessed what felt like a crime to her, as we watched the sun set behind The First Baptist Church across the street. I've tried to blog - it doesn't work. I've thought about working on my book, but I close it before I get anywhere. I finally realized I couldn't write because I wasn't ready to be honest with myself - much less with anyone else. I was unable to write because the only person I wanted to write to, well, I refused to write them. Understanding that I was hurting myself more than them by choosing not to write, I gave in and wrote three pages on a stark white legal pad. The words flowed. So did my tears. I had to re-do one page as my tears smeared the ink. I thought that only happened in movies. I still have the letter. I've been unable to make myself send it, but the point being that I wrote it. I faced my biggest fears of how I'd feel when I wrote the words "Goodbye".  Maybe the point never was for them to see it, but I had to know I could do it.

Amazingly, this person contacted me of their own accord two days after I wrote the letter (unbeknownst to them). Throughout the course of our conversation, I confessed that I was no longer sure of the path I was on. Am I running, I asked? Maybe I jumped ship too quickly, in a rush of emotions, that very few people truly understand. I tried to warn you of that they replied. In that moment I remembered why I needed to tell them goodbye. It is easy to sit somewhere: in a bar, on your bed, in a car, in your girlfriends living room etc and issue warnings from 2k miles away. You can say you foresaw something or knew I was making a mistake, but unless you are willing to be an active part of my life, while I'm making those mistakes; I don't need your I-told-you-so's. They are as useless as you. Realizing once again they were incapable of being the friend to me I needed, I chose to end the conversation. I haven't heard from them since. That's probably for the best.

Our conversation made me realize everything I didn't want to see. A person, whose life seems to be completely unaffected by me, is getting to rule all of my decisions. I still care what they think. Do they approve? Would this eventually lead them back to my door? No. Nothing will bring them back. More importantly, even if they came back, I realized I can't take them back. Allowing myself to be in victim mode, and maintain the belief this whole situation happened to me instead of accepting my responsibility fully has blinded me for the better part of two months. I was willing to walk away from a law school scholarship. Up root my entire life. Move somewhere, anywhere, and in the past two months I've legitimately made plans to move everywhere from: Texas City to Bellingham, Washington to Oklahoma City. I was running. That is what I do. I'm done running. 

The fact I'm turning in my running shoes does not mean I'm done hurting. It doesn't mean the nightmares have stopped or that I'm crying any less than I was a week ago. However, it does mean I'm getting a little bit stronger. Every single day I get a little bit better. Maybe it is selfish to cut him out of the picture completely -- he seems to thinks so. As he reminded me in our last conversation, I might as well do what I want to do, as that's what I've been doing this whole time. Funny, he actually believes that, considering I would have done whatever he asked in the not-so-distant past. I personally think by telling himself that lie, it is the only way he is able to sleep at night. However, he's the fool that will never understand or see or even grasp what he could have had. That's no longer my problem. Since he believes I've been following my own guide this entire time, I might as well. I am following through with my original plans -- the ones made months and months ago. Before I wrecked my car and thought for a moment I was dead, as my car spun across a highway. The ideas and plans that encouraged all-nighters and a time when I actually cared about my grades. The plans I had before I decided to wreck my home life and kill the closest people to me. The ones where I focus on myself, being the best that I can be for my kids. Finding a way to combine the academic and the mother; the only two roles I've ever truly done well. 

I am about to undertake the singular, most difficult thing I will have ever attempted in my entire life. I may fail. I've accepted that. This may not work. I'm still willing to try. There will be numerous forks in the road, paths I will not have seen coming, detours I will be forced to take and maybe when I'm old I will look back with regret to the road I didn't take, but that is the price one pays to actually live. I'm tired of drowning. More importantly, I'm tired of waiting for someone who doesn't deserve me to come and save me, only so they feel I owe them one more thing. I can save myself thank you very much. From now on I'm making my own life boat, with my own damn sewing machine, and it will float only where I tell it to go.

Love, 
The Rambling Gypsy

tears, poets and other such nonsense

-- If I'm writing, then I love everybody, but if I'm not writing, I don't love any of you people . . . -- Dr. Peterson

I will never forget the first time Dr. Peterson said that to me. That statement, as simple as it is, was one of the first things that really rang true for me being an English major. I quickly did an inventory of my life and realized writing is always where I turn. When I'm writing, I'm generally happier than when I'm not. Writing, whether it is my own form of poetry, which I don't really consider poetry in the classic sense or re-writing my book four times until I can live with how it ends; all of those things have been therapy for me over the years. I have survived some of the harshest things thrown my way (up to this point) by writing about them -- hence the blog you are now reading. Blogging is a relatively new (for me), socially constructed tool, and while I don't know what I think of it, I will play along for a bit.  As writers, all we want at the end of the day (usually) is for our stuff to be read, to be given some sort of credibility or have someone say they understand what we mean; the rest is gravy.  

Monday night I attended a poetry reading by three of the professors in our department. Originally, I think we had it set-up as a goodbye deal, as two of them are leaving, but one of them got upset and said he wouldn't have agreed to read had he known it was his own farewell reading. So nothing was mentioned about their departure at the end of the term and instead they did what they do best -- they shared their work with their colleagues and their students. "I'm just now learning how to talk to you" read Dr. Peterson from the first line of his first poem and immediately the tears began to fill my eyes. I know this poem. He has read it to me before in his office. I knew where the poem was going before he finished it: two spouses, always having to learn how to talk to the other one, missing the children now that they've left the home and the ghost that still roams the halls (in this case, Dr. Peterson's mother), but I think in ways, the quiet that's left behind after years of having rough-housing and arguments and love fill its rooms. 

Listening to the poems, we laughed as an audience and yes, a few of us cried. For me, poetry is one of those things I can't really write, but I appreciate it. Dr. Peterson, in particular, has been one of my favorites, simply because of the amount of time I've spent in the last two and half years, in his office, on a Friday afternoon, leaning against the door frame as he read me some random lines. Always the showman, a conversation would make him think of a poem (it didn't have to be his), and the next thing I know, he's standing in the middle of his office reading to me. I've thought numerous times over the last few years: I will miss these Fridays when they no longer exist. Another one of my professors, while not inclined to jump up and read me poetry (even though he has done so over the years), has meandered over to his bookcases more than once, looking for a source that will enhance or conclude our conversation. Pulling a book from his (way-too-organized) bookshelf, he will find the passage and read it aloud to me, leaning over the desk to show it to me in the off chance I don't believe him. Those few lines will then spark a different 30 minute long discussion. My moody poets. That is what I have called them for the past two years, as it is what they are. Passionate about most things, caught up in their own heads usually, academics that just want to write their own stuff, but have to pay the bills somehow -- my moody poets. There are not words to describe the hole that will be left by their day-to-day absence in my life. 

I'm beginning to process that this life I've led for the past two and half years is coming to an end. For all of the ups and downs and in-between, it has been one hell of a ride. These people taught me to love literature and appreciate words and what they can do to people and for people, while simultaneously giving me the courage to be myself. Coming in to my first class with the latter of the above-mentioned professors, I was quiet -- as in, I did not talk. We communicated for the first half of the semester via my papers, because I wouldn't say or ask him what I needed to know. He played along, he wrote me essay length responses and forever changed my world by his presence in it. Coming in to his first class, I was a scared kid really, who had been hurt and didn't trust anyone. I would like to think that I'm leaving Heard Hall and my beloved professors as someone a little bit older, a little bit wiser and more trusting than the person I came in as. Even though one of these professors might argue on the little bit wiser part  . . .

Yesterday I was in the office, and one of the professors looked at me and asked, "So what's the plan when you leave here? Still changing from day-to-day?" Turning a little bit red and making a momentary decision on whether I wanted to tell him what was going on or not, I stood up from my chair and said "Come with me". Closing the door to his office, I sat down in a chair and told him about the changes happening in my life and how they were partially responsible for my not knowing where I'd end up or what I'd be doing after graduation. The plans I did have -- out the window. Time for a new game plan. There are some things that have to be done, and order in which I have to do them, but the rest?!? For the first time I don't have a "plan," I don't know exactly how things are going to go. As his eyes got wide momentarily, I laughed out loud at his initial reaction. Leaning back in his rolling office chair, he asked me if the person behind all this change was rich? Good looking? Shaking my head when appropriate, his follow-up questions gave him even further reason to believe I had lost my mind, but he just looked at me and said okay. The things we do for love don't always make sense he told me, but still, this wasn't what he expected from me either. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

Lessons learned from the bar . . .

"I can go out every night of the week. Can go home with anybody I meet. But it's just a temporary high. 'Cause when I close my eyes, I'm somewhere with you . . ."

Tonight I did something I thought I'd never do -- I cried at a bar. That must break every rule known to man or some kind of drinking / bar etiquette rule. I'm sure of it. Tonight was girls night out and I was already in a slight mood when I prepared to go out. This week has been a rough one personally, and I really just wasn't feeling it. I haven't drank since in I was in Pennsylvania -- not out at a bar. I've drank at home. A night out with my girls? Surely that is what the doctor ordered.

Several drinks in and I began to realize my mistake. It started innocently enough. I smoke when I drink. I probably shouldn't, but I do. A friend of mine ran up to the bar to grab me an ashtray and brought it back to me. Without thinking about it, and being lost in conversation, I found myself rolling my cigarette against the edges of the ashtray; effectively taking off the excess ash. Realizing what I had done, I immediately put my cigarette out, as I no longer wanted it, but of course, I had to separate my cigarette butt from the ash. Something so insignificant, but so poignant.
 

Wanting to escape the feeling that something was missing, and this wasn't as fun as I remembered, I immediately accepted the offer of the cowboy sitting next to me when he asked me to dance. He had been sitting with our group for most of the night, and we had talked for most of that time, but I just couldn't make myself find it interesting. He had asked me at several points where my thoughts were at, and I just told him they were far away -- that's all the answer he was going to get. I didn't come to the bar to talk to him about what I was thinking. Thanks though. So when he extended his hand and told me that if I didn't want to talk to him, I could at least dance with him; I agreed. Dancing was safe after all -- we never did that.

Yeah, not so much. Dancing with him I finally noticed his eyes were green. Wanting to put distance between us, he pulled me in closer and told me to just relax, to go with, to forget whoever I was thinking about. Laughing out loud, I just shook my head as the chiding to relax and let myself go with it sounded familiar. Poor cowboy, he had no idea he was just digging the grave / my thoughts further away from the dance floor. We danced a couple of times, but his arms felt strange, unfamiliar and like the last place in the world I wanted to be. Not long after, he was actually removed from our table, but that is neither here nor there. I couldn't do it. 
 

By this point, I was completely and utterly frustrated. No matter what I did, nothing helped. The karaoke manager called out specials for sex on the beach and the bartender brought me a shot over with crown royal in it. Really? I think everyone set out tonight to torture me unknowingly. Before the cowboy was escorted away, he offered to buy me a Jägerbomb -- yeah, no thanks. I was done. So over girls night. Time to cut off the alcohol, as this is when I pass that line of feel good and hit the emotional wall I fight so hard against. As if on cue, the past week, hell maybe two weeks came crashing down on top of me. Grabbing one of my girlfriends, we headed to the dance floor and I held on for dear life as I finally fell apart. Yes, I am now one of those girls that cries in a bar. Wonderful. 

My girlfriend, god love her, tried to have the you're a smart, independent, beautiful woman talk who doesn't need anyone. Buck up. Get rid of them. How a 'smart, independent woman' is reduced to tears on a wooden dance floor in a country dive bar is beyond me, but yes, it can happen and it has nothing to do with needing anyone -- wanting them however is a different story. It's funny actually because we used to fight about alcohol, the amount consumed, going out etc. I am the straight-laced one. I don't push the bounds. Yet, tonight, none of that mattered. I was missing my pool buddy. Even though I can't play to save my life. My dart buddy. And no, I can't really play that either, unless the board is completely open and it's not cricket. The one who can make me laugh  and yes, the look that crumbles me instantly. Driving home and briefly wondering if I should be driving given the alcohol and the emotions, I realized I wished they were there to drive. Another sore point usually, but tonight, they were the one I wanted to take me home. 'I trust you,' I said not too long ago, and I realized tonight I meant that -- I do trust them. I trust them to get me home.  

Girls night was officially a mess and I'm glad to be sitting in my bed, about to pull the covers up over me and forget this night ever freaking happened. Of course that leads to wanting a snuggle buddy and maybe watch Invader Zim or South Park. Laughter. I miss the laughter. I miss them. I shouldn't, but god bless it, I do. And they thought I was kidding when I said I was forever ruined for anyone else. They had no idea how serious I was. Lesson learned from the bar?? Once my thoughts have left the building and abandoned me for a plane ride away; they are unrecoverable and I may as well give into all the feelings that come with it. There's no point in fighting it. It is what it is. So much changed so quickly, and it amazes me how much of my rituals have already been taken over by memories of them. The only thing I'm thankful for?? That the phone wasn't available to text my drunken dialogue, as that would have nowhere good to go. We're fragile enough as it is. Oh well, I have now done something I swore I'd never do: I cried in a bar, and guess what, I survived  . . .

Love, 
The Rambling Gypsy 

No good, horrible, very bad day . . .

Technically, this no good, horrible, very bad day was yesterday and it is now over. Tonight I got home late around 11 p.m. from a class and walked into my room. The best sight in the world was seeing my little boy cuddled with my pillow. Laying down next to him, I held his hand while he slept and listened to him breathe. All while rubbing my empty hand over my new sheets. The other day I bought some new Egyptian cotton sheets, and they are incredibly soft, if I do say so myself. The sheets are just part of a week full of changes, but I like them and I'm adjusting. Still, coming home and laying next to him and allowing my eyes to shut made it easy to put a very bad day at bay. Nothing else mattered right then. 

I wish I could explain why the day was so awful, but that's for me to know and deal with on my own. It was funny actually because after an incident thing this morning, I logged onto FB and deleted the post that displayed my blog from last night. I didn't want it to be accessible, as I've pretty much kept my blog under wraps until that post. I felt like I had been open, maybe too open with what I was beginning to think or feel and how I see the world right now. All I wanted to do was wrap myself back in my self protective cocoon and shut it all off. That worked for a little bit. I called into work, as I wasn't feeling well anyways, and then I laid down to sleep. Nothing changed while I was sleeping, but I woke-up knowing I had to push forward with my day; the chips will fall where they may.  

Then later this afternoon I regretted taking down the post. I realized that was my m.o. -- I run. Something starts going a little bit haywire and I jump ship. Things aren't always going to be exactly what I want them to be, when I want them to be, but that doesn't mean they don't have the possibility to work out. There are multiple people in my life that expect me to run or give up or believe that eventually something will be too much for me. My leaving will then prove what they already suspect about people in general and that the only person one can depend on is themself. Well, I'm still here. I was able to put my big girl panties on and deal with it, and I didn't break -- even though I wanted to briefly. 

I wish sometimes there was a way to shine a mirror onto my heart or soul or hell even my brain so what I'm thinking would be evident and clear. My reason for wishing I could do this, is I've realized over the past few days that what I thought was obvious or understood is anything but obvious or understood. For all the progress I thought I had made in being open; I realize there is so much left to do. Will it change anything right now if I lay it all on the line? Probably not, but it might change it later. If nothing else it will open up the communication fully, so that where I stand is known. Most issues could be avoided if communication were properly used, but instead, it's easier to reach down into ourselves, get lost in our own head and ignore the fact that sometimes we hurt the people we love when we fail to tell them everything. 

I have one regret from the past two weeks and considering everything I could regret -- that is nothing. It actually comes down to this exact topic. I was asked at two points in particular that I can recall if I had something I wanted to say? I said no. That was a lie. I just wasn't ready to say what I was thinking. Maybe it worked out best that way. Maybe if I had, things would have gone in an unrecoverable direction because it would have been too soon. It is impossible to explain what I consider a gravitational pull or even comparing something to a religion, but that doesn't mean it isn't there.

Sometimes things happen too fast, and it is necessary to pull back on the reins just a little. Take the time to adjust. Allow the heart, mind and the physical to catch up to the same place. That isn't an overnight thing. Something that initially feels so intense and like it must be acted on immediately, has the potential to fizzle out the fastest if not properly honed. I'm beginning to understand that anything worth having is worth being patient for. I know how I feel or I know what I think, but that doesn't mean that someone else knows those things. Therefore patience is paramount in allowing the timing to catch up so it has a chance to thrive. The only thing I know to compare this situation to is a bloom on a flower.

The flower starts off as a bud, tight, unopened and it's not fragrant yet. Eventually it begins to open. As its petals expand, the flower opens to reveal a beautiful center; it's heart. The flower begins to release its perfume and for a moment in time, you have something beautiful and amazing. One might argue this is an awful analogy because flowers die. No, flowers die when they are plucked from the earth. When they are cut from their stem. When their life source is taken away -- that is when flowers die. As long as their roots are firmly planted in the ground or they remain attached to their stem; they remain alive. This is the beginning of the flower. We are each others roots to the past, the present and possibly the future. The possibility is there to blossom, to grow and to produce new life. This isn't a race, and I don't want it to crash and burn because we put Miracle-Gro on the flowers and tried to rush the process before they were ready. I may not have always been patient, but I'm learning to become so. It's worth it to see the full bloom in the end.

Love, 
The Rambling Gypsy

Change . . .

Percy Shelley once said: "It is the same!--For, be it joy or sorrow, / The path of its departure still is free: / Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; / Nought may endure but Mutability." 

I read that poem several years ago in one of my English classes and it quickly became a favorite. There was something about it I understood innately. Okay, maybe the poem wasn't the most cheerful in the world, but change or mutability, is the only constant in life, which is amusing in itself. Over the years, I have referred to "Mutability" and tonight, I find myself once again turning to its words.  

This afternoon I did one of the hardest things a parent will ever have to do: I told my nine year-old daughter her father and I were divorcing. Her large green eyes looked up at me and filled with tears. "Why?" she asked me. I stroked her head and wiped away her tears, all while trying to come up with an answer. "Sometimes baby, things just don't work out how we want them too. Nothing changes though. You are still the most important thing in my entire world. Your daddy and I love you more than anything." I proceeded to tell her that she could be angry or sad or whatever she wanted to be; she was allowed to feel whatever she wanted. 

In her childlike innocence, she asked me was I happy with this choice? I told her yes. I have no regrets. Truth be known, this divorce would have happened years ago, had the children not been involved. We wanted it to work for them. I wanted it to work for them. There comes a point when you realize you are banging your head against a brick wall every single day of your life, and you can either continue to do so, or you can back away from the wall. The wall isn't moving -- only you can. Still wanting to explain to her why I was walking away from my marriage, I told her she didn't have to understand right now and she quickly cut me off, and said, "But I do understand, mommy. It just makes me a little sad is all." Right then my heart broke in two. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make sure her heart never breaks because of me again, but I know that is a futile attempt, as surely it will at some point.

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

What do I say? . . .

What do you or I or anyone say when they find out one of their best friends is getting married? Of course there is the obvious, "Congratulations," but after that has been said, then what? This engagement was not wholly unexpected, in fact, it has been talked about off and on since September, even though they only started dating in July. I find myself at a crossroads: one road makes me protective, wanting to shield this young 22 year-old girl from making the same mistakes I did, and the other wants to be nothing but happy for her and pray she knows what she's doing more than I give her credit for. What do I say?

Looking back on my own marriage at the tender age of 18, there are times I wish someone would have sat me down and said, "You don't have to do this, you know?" My daughter was born in November of the previous year, and I had been brought up in a Christian home. I had already broken the rules, in more ways than one, and it was time to make things right. No-one ever told me I didn't have to go through with it, or that I had another choice. Nine years later, I look back on that time both with fondness and disbelief. There is something to be said for not having a clue what you're taking on, or how big of a commitment marriage actually is. Neither of us had any idea what it meant to put someone else first or that forever meant, well, forever. Often times it doesn't. On New Years Eve this year we had the conversation that had been coming for months, hell, truth be told, years; somewhere along the way we had become friends and stopped being husband and wife. Maybe we never had been. Maybe we should go ahead and divorce? We weren't miserable, nor do we hate the other person. We still live together. Our relationship is complicated, but aren't they always in some form or fashion? Nine years later and I'm not as naive as I was at 17 years old. Nor do I believe in fairy tales anymore. The only shoe that can change a girls life is the one found in a department store. That is the reality no-one could have told me or convinced me of nine years ago.

While I type this, my son half wakes from his sleep and cuddles up next to me. He is now my cuddle partner in a king size bed that feels even bigger. I sing along to Betty Soo in the background and tell him, "I would learn how to fly if it meant I could stay by your side forever / and I would swim to distant lands if it meant / I would find you when my fingers reach the sand." He smiles in his sleep and I know he is comfortable and feels safe here with me. Nothing warms my heart like placing my fingers in his palm, and his grasping them like he did when he was an infant; he is now five. If their dad and I did nothing else right, we knocked this one out of the park; our two children are amazing. I would do it all over again to have my children, to love them, to know them and watch them grow. It is in watching my son that I know I have the answer for my friend, even though the answer is actually for myself. I now know what to say.

You have so much life ahead of you, and no, I don't think you know yourself -- yet. Still, you are beautiful and brilliant. To think you are incapable of deciding who you want to love or who you want to try and make a life with is to take away everything that I love about you. It is not my place or anyone else's to rain on your parade. Marriage won't be easy, but it's not impossible. There will be something you will learn, multiple things actually and the gifts you will take away from the time spent (if there is an "away") will be worth the experience -- whether those gifts are children or just a better understanding of your self. You will make a beautiful bride. 

That is all I know to say. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

I miss him.

Tonight, I am missing him. The question is, who is the him? Cleaning out my bedroom in an effort to begin the tedious task known as packing and sorting, I found a letter I wrote several years ago. I remember the night exactly, even though the letter was not dated. My mother had found, and in turn, gave me pictures of my old boyfriend. Looking through the pictures, I fought the smile that inevitably crept upon my face, before handing them back saying I no longer cared. In all honesty, I really didn't care anymore; he had left a long time before. Still, it was nice to see his face. The one that will never age now, and will forever be sixteen. I allowed myself to have a moment, that moment, the one that missed the way his eyes looked at me, and how his hair felt when I ran my fingers through it tenderly. I remembered a look that used to cut me to the core and gave me butterflies. Briefly, I wondered if he was still capable of doing that? I surmised he probably was. Once the moment was over though, it didn't matter anymore, and I was once again the young twenty-something that had let him go.

Since writing is how I deal with my life and the things I don't understand, it did not surprise me to find another letter. This one was all kinds of messed up, as I started it on the wrong side of the notebook paper and continued that trend throughout the letter. Looking back now, I no longer remembered which page or which side came first; it was fun trying to piece my own letter together. Unlike the boyfriend who left by choice, this letter was to my grandpa -- he did not leave by choice. My hero. The best man a ten-year-old girl could ask for, when her own father was no longer around. The man who is irreplaceable, and unfortunately for any man who tries to come into my life now; will always be the model of what love and family should look like. The night I wrote his letter, I was missing him then too. When I was a little girl, and after he died, he would frequently show up in my dreams until I told him to stop visiting me; the pain was too much to bear when I woke-up and he was no longer there. After that time, I have seen him less than three or four times; he came only when I was in such a desperate place in my life, that he was the only one that would suffice. The night I wrote the letter, I was lamenting the fact I just wanted to see his face once more, as it felt like I was forgetting him. I didn't need him though. My life wasn't falling apart. I knew he wouldn't come, but still, I couldn't remember whether his eyes were blue or green, and that was cause for alarm enough. If I remember correctly, I didn't see him in my dreams that night, in fact, I still haven't. And yes, he is fading, but I know my love nor his never will; just the physical nature of his body fades.

The only other him I could be missing is the son I never had. The child who earned his angel wings before I got to meet him or hold him or find out what kind of man he'd turn out to be. He's been on my mind a lot here lately, as different things have made me think of him. A friend has a blog that she writes to deal with the loss of her sweet baby girl, and it had me reduced to tears just last night, as I read through her day-to-day struggle to achieve normalcy; whatever that is now. I think back to a friend who miscarried a year or so ago. She told me at the time, when I confessed I had as well, that she felt like she joined a secret society that she never wanted to be apart of. The tragedy we as women endure, the ones who carry the child, can feel their kicks and are their sole protector for nine months; the tragedy that unites us, but the one we never speak of in public. Today I saw a baby, a three month old little girl when I was out to lunch with the father of my children. We both watched the new, young mother as she tried to handle a diaper bag, her purse, the baby and a stroller all at once. We smiled inadvertently, and even chuckled as she managed the juggling routine, but we never said a word. Every now and then we have those moments where we understand. The loss is bigger than the both of us, and there is nothing to say.

I miss him. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy