Eight Years

Year One

Rules:

(1) Don’t touch my face or

(2) Watch me shower or

(3) Slap my ass in public or

(4) Open pickle jars for me or

(5) Wake me up before I’m ready or

(6) Let me oversleep or

(7) Say anything about working out or

(8) Buy me flowers when you know I like plants or

(9) Open doors for me or

(10) Tell me not to cry.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? 

I don’t like tree bark or pomegranate seeds or when roots cling to plants that are already dead.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? 

I can’t think about space. DON’T MAKE ME. There are too many little parts in one picture; too many small things swirling together. Dark Matter. Gas. How did you even find me?

I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

I like birds because they are bovine. You are the only one who knows that. They are not feeble or angelic! Eight hollowed bones in each wing and they spend all day nesting. MORONS.

NO ONE ELSE UNDERSTANDS. 

Year Eight (365 days times 8 plus 2 leap years and 3 hours)

Rules:

(1) Never leave me.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? 

You are my star; my nested bird in chaos.

signiture

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One thought on “Eight Years

  1. When issues such as parental acceptance and familial baggage are dismissed because they are common, I question our abilities to empathize with others, or, more likely, admit we are going through the same issues.

    I think men have a particular problem with admitting the emotional frustrations we deal with, particularly with deep rooted psychological battles like aloneness, sex, and acceptance. If we find ways to more easily discuss the issues we face, I would argue, as sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, we would likely see how similar we all are.

    Cheers to you, Cap! I think you’re on to something. And, you’re really lucky to have such a beautiful family. 🙂 100%

    – Cory

    Liked by 1 person

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