Screw Cancer. It’s like a burglar that comes at midnight. It comes in the middle of an unsuspecting night, while you lay fast asleep cozy in bed next to a loved one, or your favorite stuffed animal. Whether it tricks the lock or scales the windows and doors it somehow manages to slip through the smallest unexamined crack, and finds a way in to the place you always assumed would be safe. It defiles your home and leaves you feeling vulnerable and confused. It comes swift and bold and strong. It moves silently, slipping into every room without you having a chance. It ransacks your life, it goes through your belongings and it makes sure you don’t hear a damn thing while it carries out its selfish intentions. It works tirelessly, to gather all the things you hold dear so it can take it for itself. And, by the time you wake up and roll out of the warm comfort of your bed, by the time you walk down the stairs, by the time you catch it, it has removed everything that holds any real value and leaves not a trace of evidence behind to have a culprit to blame. Screw Cancer. It takes your TV and your curtains and all the money you have ever saved. It takes your peace of mind and any idea of security you have ever had. It takes your favorite necklace and your favorite shoes and any favorite you have ever had. Just like the midnight burglar it is needy and silent and fast. It’s only motivation is to take all the things you love and leave you feeling helpless. It has no remorse and no conscience. It is quiet and cunning and destructive. Screw Cancer. If only we had a vague sketch artist drawing of you that we could pin down Criminal Minds style and lock you away for life. If only we had a leading witness to testify against you in trial. If only we had a face to blame. If only we had a way to get all the things back you stole. If only you weren’t the best thief there ever was.
I lay here on this leather couch, the sun just set, the stars are rising in the sky. The light from the moon begins to slowly spill through the open shutters and the room becomes filled, ocean deep in a soft glow. We lay together, you and me, just the way it works best. There we are, smothered in moonlight in that quiet room clinging to each other, too afraid of what would happen if we let go. If I open my eyes will you have just been a sweet and perfect dream? The kind of dream that leaves you breathless, the kind that takes you hours to separate from? Will the long walks by the river and the warm summer sunsets drift away like all my other dreams. If I breathe too loudly will I blow all of this away like a child blows a freshly picked dandelion in the summer time, will you have just been my single wish? If I blink will our lives flash before me too rapidly for me to stop it? Will I flash forward and miss all this life has to offer us? If I fall asleep will I wake to us in our old age laying in the warn in, butter cream sheets in the home we have had for 50 years? We cling to each other because we are too afraid of what would happen if we let go. My breath begins to quicken and I feel your grasp on me grow tighter, are you thinking of this too? I want to sink in the cold,crisp ocean with you, and drink the tartest wine in Italy, I want to get a sunburn in the Caribbean and never stop holding your hand. I want to fall asleep under the perfect set of stars, and dance in the middle of the street, no street in particular, just about all of them. I want to smell your cologne on your neck and run away to Paris for awhile. I want our laughter to fill the quiet streets on a cold night, I want to get lost in the jungle and, meet every member of your family. I want to build a million tents and see a million places and be with only you. I have a full life planned for you and I, don’t let me go.
Have you ever wondered why you remember little tiny details from your life, usually lasting only a few moments and that seem to hold no real value? Because, if you are like me, I cant seem to remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, was it toast or, maybe cheerios. I mean its rather clear why I can graphically recall flipping over my handlebars and skidding down the drive way at the ripe age of four or the moment when I was eleven and my mother sat us down to tell us she had cancer, but what about the tiny, seemingly random moments that you can not seem to forget. Why do I remember being six and my brother being three and “riding” our magic carpets (our blankies laying on the floor of my childhood house). Why do I perfectly recall sitting in the passenger seat of my grandparents old, roughly worn truck seat and singing a christmas song with my grandfather. Its so clear that I can picture sitting there, my small hands covered in white mittens and riding the smooth country road to his house. Why do I recount the smell of buttery popcorn being made on the stove of our tiny house. I can see my beautiful mother standing there telling us it’s almost ready and her laughing about a joke that has drifted along with my memory. Why can I see myself riding down the block, wind in my hair, pink handlebars and all, on my way to my very best childhood friends house. Why do I remember laying in the backyard, the sun hitting us just right as my brother and I lay in the warm green grass. These random things I can not forget. Will they show me something about myself in the future, did I do something life changing without knowing, will I be shown these moments five people you meet in heaven style. Maybe we all remember these tiny moments because, while they were small, they were perfect. Maybe we felt an enormous amount of love, or happiness, or just flat out joy. As I grow older I cant think of a better afternoon than laying in the grass with my brother, and what I wouldn’t give to be sitting in that cold, old truck with my warm, perfect grandfather. Memories are all we have, as we get older. People leave us, you move away from home, and the world never ceases to change. Memories are what ground us, what inspire us and what makes us feel at home. While most are random and seem to hold no true value, if you think about it, most of these memories are perfect. Simple, short, and perfect.
There is something miraculously romantic about the way the warm butter creme light flows from my bedside lamp and tucks itself into every page of my book. The way the light smooths the rough edges of the room and the rough edges of my day. The way in shifts back and fourth, until it finds the perfect place to lay, until it covers the carpets, the quilted blankets. the closets and me. There is something so romantic about the way that candle light dances across my skin and the way it uses my bedroom wall to spend the night doing the Charleston like the flappers of history’s past. And the way that the crisp sweetness of apple fills the room and fills the stories. The way it folds you into itself, and makes you feel at home. There is something so romantic about the way that the words flow off my page and place me in the story. The smells, the people, the way the world looks. The way it sends me on a private trip to a place far away. Far away from my butter creme lamp, from the dancing candle, from today.