Sugar Words

Books are like candy.  I can never read just one.  And I'm always left with my mouth watering, wishing the flavor had lingered longer.  

I find myself sneaking them in, like a second helping of dessert after dinner.  Like the piece of candy you steal when your mother's not looking.  

I devour them quickly, but still savor their taste as the words seep into my tongue.  Some books are like toffee.  They take a lot of chewing before they can be swallowed, and they leave bits of ideas stuck in your teeth.  Other books are like hard candy, taking longer to disappear, but being all the more enjoyed for it.  And some are like spun sugar, melting quickly, and leaving you wanting more.

I'm definitely an addict for their sugary comfort.  But I don't want to go to rehab.  

Under My Skin

I could blame stress.  I could blame the fact that a lot of really bad stuff has happened already this year.  I could blame the fact that I'm female.  There are a hundred excuses I could use.  But lets face the truth, shall we?

I am a bitch.

It's true.  I can admit it.  And sometimes, more than others, it shows.  And lately, it's been showing a lot.  So many little things have been getting under my skin.  Lighting that notoriously short fuse to my temper.  It would seem I have inherited the innate ability from my mother to piss people off.  I am hoping that where I differ in that skill is the fact that I can accept the blame.  I can say, "Yes, it's my fault."  She can't.  Hopefully that matters.  If not, I'm running for the hills.

And now I'm facing up to it.  I consider myself intelligent.  I like to point out the wrongs of the world.  I like to think things like, "I'm better than that."  I'm arrogant.  I may have some redeeming qualities, but they don't tip the scales much.  I'm petty and mean and insensitive.

And I'm not sorry.  Not one bit.  This is me.  Live with it, or leave me alone.

Sorrow

Yesterday I held a dying baby in my arms.

It seemed like a bad dream.  It still seems like a dream.  A nightmare.  I keep hoping to wake up, and find he's still alive.  Even though he was not blood to me, he was family, as close as family can be.   I was there when he was born, and I can't but help remember how tiny and strong he was when I held him then.  And compare that to the fragile thing, covered in tubes.  He was only 11 months old.  He died before he had a chance to live.

His death is an injustice.  It stands as proof that there is something very wrong with this world.  I, for one, have never believed death to be a natural part of life.  But it still effects everyone.  

I wish that I had seen him more while he was alive.  I know his mother feels the same.  I can't imagine how much pain she must be in, if my pain is so great that I can hardly breathe.  

Still, I will strive to remember how he was before that day at the hospital.  Smiling.  Happy.  Strong.  And for those of you reading this, take a moment.  Appreciate your loved ones.  Your family and your friends.  Know that you are blessed to have them with you.