Author: Melissa Snyder

Melissa Snyder https://awriterbecoming.wordpress.com Melissa Snyder is an introvert with a flair for the dramatic in her writing. She is a wife, mother, teacher, compulsive writer, voracious reader, and fierce defender of Love and Imagination. She likes to write about faith (her own and faith in general) and self and emotion and society and hobbies, as well as revealing the myriad paracosms that inhabit her mind. These paper bullets of the brain live in her blog and on Facebook where she endeavors to write about life and Imagination boldly and share honestly.

“Nesting with Alcott”

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If anyone were to ask me who my favorite character ever is, I would have to say Josephine “Jo” March, from Alcott’s Little Women.

Over the past day or so, I have been seized by the desire to have as many of my Louisa May Alcott books by my bedside as my poor little nightstand can handle. On there now, I have Alcott’s biography and journals, Behind a Mask & Other Stories, A Whisper in the Dark, From Jo March’s Attic, Alternative Alcott, Under the Lilacs, Eight Cousins, Rose in Bloom, and The Inheritance. An Old-Fashioned Girl is sitting here on the arm of the couch next to me and my large hardback volume of Little Women is on the shelf above my head. I have read all of these books at least half a dozen times, some of them at full dozen at the very least.

I was gifted with my first copy of the 1990s film “Little Women” when I was but twelve years old, for Christmas. I fell in love with the March Girls, with Marmee (which is what I call my mother to this day, seventeen years later, and have gotten other people to refer to her as such), with Laurie, with Jo’s stories and determination to be a “great writer and earn barrels of money”. I have been blessed and excited to even have some parallel experiences with Jo in my life, such as selling my first story for $5.00 and marrying a teacher of German (instead of a German professor). Jo has always inspired me and she will always be my favorite.

Alcott’s books have always brought me joy. I remember when my mother put a copy of The Inheritance into my hands as a surprise, Alcott’s first novel written as a teenager and unpublished until that year. I was overjoyed and sat down to read it right then. Since then, I read that sweet little book about goodness and purity whenever I need a reminder of what is important in life. Just as I cry and remember my family losses when I read of Beth March’s quiet, patient, loving life and gentle departure from this world and resolve to live so that those gone would have been proud of me. Eight Cousins allows me to live, vicariously, through Rose. I have always dreamt of having brothers, especially those who were kind and loving. Boys whom I could love and care for as family. I was gifted with those in the form of God-sent male friends in college, and I am ever thankful for them. An Old-Fashioned Girl reminds me that there is nothing wrong with being a simple person with simple tastes and to have hands that are always willing to do for and encourage others, whether they notice it or not, appreciate it or not.

These are the books I grab when I need something to feed my soul, something to lift my spirits and give me hope and a smile. When I need invigorating, I pick Alcott’s “other” stories. Her sensation pieces, her “blood-and-thunder” tales. I was absolutely fascinated when my mother returned from a trip visiting her friends and gave me Behind a Mask & Other Stories (you can easily see who feeds my obsession). I read it and re-read it to make sure I hadn’t missed anything in the mysteries of these stories. My favorite collection of these sensation stories, however, is the now-out-of-print From Jo March’s Attic. I love “My Mysterious Mademoiselle”, “Which Wins”, and “The Countess Varazoff”. I actually ended up writing my thesis for my Masters of Arts in Literature on body theory as utilized by Alcott in her stories “Behind a Mask” and “Betrayed by a Buckle” to call for a reform of women’s rights and the constructs of what it meant to be a “proper woman in her proper place”. It was a joy to use two stories that I have treasured all my life, as well as Alcott’s strong views on equality and femininity, to produce a work that I dare to think she might have agreed with if she were alive to read it.

Alcott is imprinted on my brain, my emotions, and my heart, and she will always be. I would not have it any other way. And may I someday be a Jo, a Rose, a Polly, an Edith, and embody those beautiful qualities that she wrote into these amazing characters who remain my dear friends to this day.

Perhaps, like Alcott, I may, someday, be able to echo the lyrics that Jo sings in the Broadway staging of Little Women:

Here I go
And there’s no turning back
My great adventure has begun
I may be small
But I’ve got giant plans
To shine as greatly as the sun

I will blaze until I find my time and place
I will be fearless,
Surrendering modesty and grace
I will not disappear without a trace
I’ll shout and start a riot
Be anything but quiet
Christopher Columbus
I’ll be Astonishing
Astonishing
Astonishing

At Last

Story Tidbit – “Kaious and Vashka”

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Ouch! Gods, help me!

Vashka’s entire body screamed at her as she lowered herself onto her stomach on her bed. Her back was afire but there wasn’t anything she could for herself at the moment. She sent the servant girl for Ochabu, for she trusted only the old woman to tend her.

“Child! What happened?” the old midwife questioned as she entered the room and pulled the door to.

Vashka merely groaned weakly from where she lay on the bed. If she could have seen what Ochabu could see, she would have considered the old woman’s exclamations well warranted.

Her clothes lay in bloody shreds upon her, the brown skin of her back striped a dozen times. The lines lay thin but the lashes had gone deep; not deep enough to stitch but too deep to heal quickly.

Ochabu rolled up her sleeves and set to work immediately, heating water and sending another slave girl out with a list of specific herbs and plants to make a healing salve for the girl’s wounds. She tore off what remained of Vashka’s clothes. There was no time for modesty; Vashka was already beginning to shake with the pain of the whipping.

“Who did this to you, child? Who would dare?” Ochabu asked as she worked and, shakily, Vashka poured out the story of an hour.

After a while, a shadow moved under the door and it opened quietly. “My lady,” a young slave boy said. “His Excellency demands your presence.”

“The Lady Vashka is in no condition—” Ochabu began but Vashka’s quiet voice broke in.

“Tell His Excellency Kaious that I am unfortunately indisposed and send my deepest apologies,” she said with as much strength as she could muster.

The slave boy looked confused and slightly afraid but he obeyed quickly, leaving the harem as fast as he could.

Vashka sank down onto the bed again, feeling Ochabu start to bathe her wounds. She flinched at the hot water on her tender wounds but soon ceased to feel pain as darkness slipped blessedly over her head.

She did not hear heavy, hurried footfalls approach a short while later as Kaious stormed into the room.

He stopped short, just inside the door, seeing Ochabu rising from Vashka’s bed where she still laid, her wounds as plain as day. Without a word, he closed the door and drew the bolt. Then he just stood there for a moment silently. It almost seemed to the old midwife that he was marshalling his anger for the question so she beat him to the punch.

“Your…advisors did this, Excellency.”

“What?” The single word was low but carried the weight of an army’s fury with it.

“Apparently, someone has accused my lady of plotting to poison you,” Ochabu explained as she checked the herbs that were boiling on the brazier.

“Who?!”

“My, our vocabulary is limited this evening.”

Kaious cursed beneath his breath. “This is no time for jokes, Ochabu!”

“I understand that, Excellency. Believe me, I do. But anger will not make these herbs boil any faster,” she pointed out, coming back with fresh cloths to lay on Vashka’s back. Kaious had taken a seat on her bed, next to her, so she handed them to him with a look that said “make yourself useful”.

“Who accused her?” he asked as he laid the hot strips across her back. Seeing those red, glowing, welted stripes over his dear one’s flesh made him sick inside.

“She does not know. They would not tell her. All they would say was that proof had been provided that condemned her and demanded that she confess. Naturally, she would confess nothing. For she has done nothing! The old fools!” Ochabu made an angry sign of disdain with her fingers. “So they striped her for her refusal, for they knew you would never allow her to be executed. Just like spoiled children with an animal that has upset them.”

Kaious frowned deeply, gazing over Vashka, who groaned as he touched her. “I’ll kill them!” he breathed furiously. “They cannot do such things without my knowledge! Without my permission!”

“Actually…they can,” a voice came from the bed. Vashka was awake, barely. She blinked and tried to move to glance at him but the pain drove her to keep still.

Kaious knelt next to her bedside as she turned her head again, slowly this time. “Shkaya…” He brushed her damp hair back from her forehead.

She winced again in her wakefulness. “Silver-steel whips,” she rasped, her voice rough with pain.

Kaious instinctively winced himself. Silver-steel whips were the favored interrogation tactic of the Council. But to use it on Vashka—on his favorite, his chief concubine—without his permission! It was inexcusable! It was a fool’s errand!

Vashka spoke haltingly and gave a sound that almost sounded like a chuckle. “I know that look. And Jan’zed was so kind as to read me the law before they flogged me. Nothing in the law says that they had to alert you unless they found ‘indisputable proof’.”

“And they obviously didn’t,” Ochabu cut in as she ground the boiled herbs to make the salve.

“Whomever accused you can’t be fully trusted then,” Kaious growled. “Only someone inside the palace would be able to accuse you and the Councilors must not think it enough weight.” He lifted a dry rag and gazed at one of the stripes. Its smooth, perfect edgings where it had cut into her back were the tailormark of a silver-steel whip. The whip lash was wrapped with silver-steel, the softest and most flexible metal in the empire; the steel was also razor-sharp and produced the smooth, deep lashes like those Vashka bore.

“Shkaya, darling, what proof did they give you?” he asked as he lifted the other strips from her back.

“An…obsidian jar.” She flinched again as the air touched the wounds. “They say my accuser found it in my room…that it contained  mozelth poison and that the law allowed them to…question me. They probably thought I would be far enough back in the rotation that you would not see me until they had healed.”

Kaious exploded again, leaping up from the bed! “That is impossible! I know of the one place that poison can be found! And you have never seen it! And the fools thought they could deceive me! They can’t do this! The law…I am the law!”

“No…” her voice was quiet. “You are only Kaious.”

The look he gave her was all anger, sadness, and, most of all, helplessness. She was right; he was only Kaious. He was a figurehead; his word was law but much of the law did not depend on him, for it had been in existence for centuries. Kaious ran his hands over his face and sighed. “I still want them to pay! Jan’zed…that old jackel!”

Ochabu approached, placing a bowl in his hands and gesturing to Vashka’s back.

The hurting woman sighed, too. “Do what you must, love. Be angry, ply your rage. But do not endanger yourself. Do not give reasoning for another uprising so soon.” She paused as he sat on the bed again. “You swore to me that you would be careful. You swore to me, Vima! And I hold you to your word now!” Her voice was still weak but it held a firmness that he had come to know and love.

Ochabus shuffled out of the room, mumbling that she would be back later to check on Vashka and needed to arrange for medicine.

Kaious nodded at Vashka’s words and, leaning down, kissed her hair. “This may hurt, I’m sorry,” he apologized as he began to apply the salve to her back. Every time she winced or groaned, his heart broke anew and his anger flared hot. He should draw and bleed these snakes for what they had done to her…to his wife! It made him shake with fury but he forced his hand to be still as he drew the salve along the stripes on her back. By the smell, he knew it to be the same herbs that she had used on his many wounds during their days in the army.

As he worked his way down her back, Kaious found himself stopping when he reached a familiar scar. A particular stripe had crossed it so that it formed a small X on the far left side of her back. He lingered there for a moment but then moved on, eager for the salve to begin its work. When he was done, he laid fresh strips of cloth over her back and then knelt beside her again. “You must keep still, Shkaya. Let the wounds heal.” He tried to give her a smile. “Think of them as battle scars.”

She gave as weak an effort in return. “I love you,” she whispered.

“And I love you,” was his reply, just as quiet, as he stretched out his hand and touched her cheek. “I must go now. Ochabu will watch you. Whatever you need…”

Vashka gave another weak attempt at a smile and shooed him with a gentle word, “Go.”

As much as he wanted to linger, Kaious knew the dangers of people knowing he was in her chamber. With a gentle, quick kiss, he left her room, closing the door gently behind him. As he turned away from it to move into the open harem, many of the girls felt their blood go cold at the look on his face as he glared at them.

“I will have none of you tonight!” he bellowed, shaking off Aeth as she approached him. Then he stalked from the harem and the bang of his chamber doors echoed through the corridors.

Kaious did indeed let his anger be known but he planned it out carefully and portrayed that façade of controlled, cold cruelty that serves best to frighten or at least instill that modicum of fear that grows over time.

He did nothing to punish them but calmly assured them that he was grossly displeased with these proceedings and that he, too, knew the letter of law.

“So, my noble sirs, do not make the mistake of hiding behind the law and keeping me in the dark. I am Kaious. Do not forget. You advance yourselves only through my good graces.”

Grand Vizier Jan’zed bowed in reply. “Of course, Your Excellency. We are merely seeking to protect your royal person and the sanctity of the empire.”

“I am well aware of this, Jan’zed. But, I give you my solemn—and experienced—word that whomever accused the Lady Vashka is a liar. She is a smart woman who values her life, Councilors. She would not attempt something as foolish as trying to poison me,” Kaious warned them, sitting stately upon the golden throne of the Ankai. He saw the look of disgust on Jan’zed’s face when he referred to Vashka as a lady but paid it no mind. “I wish this matter dropped, gentlemen. Now!”

Though much of the law did not depend on him, his word was still law. Once Kaious has expressly forbidden something, it could be pursued no longer. And it wasn’t.

“A Teacher’s Revenge”

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The noise was incredible. Twenty-three hyped up eighth graders and one poor teacher with a migraine. Not good odds. Her hands felt tingly and so did her head. Light, like she was going to pass out, but too full to do that.

The kids just wouldn’t shut up. “Will you just be QUIET?” she screamed mentally.

And the noise stopped.

It wasn’t just complete silence. It was a profound silence.

Blinking, Melissa looked around at her class. Each and every one was totally silent, mouths closed, eyes open wide. Some with surprise, others with fear. She could see some of them trying to open their mouths and failing and the eyes growing wider still.

They couldn’t speak, none at all.

Could it be true?

Out the corner of her eye, Melissa saw a girl in the back jump up as if to bolt from the room.

Petrificus! Her mind leapt out before she even knew to think.

And the girl froze in mid-step!

So it was true! Finally! It was about time that Powers That Be lent teachers a hand.

Quietly raising a finger to do so, Melissa wordlessly mobilicorpus’ed the girl back into her seat. And there she stayed…after Melissa petrificus’ed the entire class to their seats.

Then, picking up the book, she opened to chapter I and began to read.

“When Jem was thirteen, he broke his arm badly at the elbow….”

The twelve pages of the first chapter flew by and Melissa even saw some students relaxing and beginning to actually listen to the story as she read and stopped in a few places to explain. She reminded them of their assignments and projects and when the bell rang for the end of class, she silently released the spells that held them and let them scamper away fearfully, not daring to open their mouths until they were out the door and casting glances back at her as they went. They were probably afraid that she’d turned them into something next. She was sure they were all vowing to never return to that classroom and they would tell everyone they knew. That was fine.

Who would believe your teacher was a REAL witch anyway?

“So I Fall in Love with Novel Characters…”

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…don’t judge me!

Why is it that Mercedes Lackey is so talented at writing male characters that just make me swoon? Lately, it’s the re-emergence of Robin Goodfellow (Puck) in her newest Elemental Masters novel Home From the Sea, along with a new character by the name of Idwal, an Elemental creature himself, though nowhere near as powerful as Robin, who is the Oldest Old One on land in all of Britain.

When we first met Robin was way back in the book Wizard of London, technically book #5 of Elemental Masters series, but what began as my FIRST foray into this beautiful world. I have been pulling memories and associations from it as I read the other books ever since. In Wizard, our main characters Sarah and Nan were but little girls and so Robin appeared to them as a winsome, mischievous boy, a playmate. Now that they are grown, like Aslan, he appears to have grown with them. Of course, Robin can appear anyway he pleases, but he chooses to match their age, perhaps a little older, in order to keep his friends comfortable. I love the image of him appearing and greeting the girls with arms held open and kissing the tops of their heads when they run to embrace him. There is something alluring and tantalizing about him, while at the same time, utterly ungraspable. His almost-unflappable good nature makes me smile constantly, as does his fierce loyalty towards and protection of the girls.

I suppose that is part of what would make him dangerous: the ability to easily fall in love with him, fickle and flighty Old One that he may seem to be. The tingle of magic is around him, the aura of Summerland, the power of the Oldest Ones. But, overall, he is kind, he is merry, he is friendly, and he is loyal and those are beautiful traits.

Then there is Idwal. Idwal is an elemental creature and holds the titles of mage, Druid, and teacher. He is the consummate teacher: patient, kind, understanding, and knowledgeable. He listens to questions and answers them wisely, explaining details and rewarding hard work and deep thought. His nature is calm, joyful when his student excels, and caring of their well-being. Idwal would be the kind of man that I could enjoy being around, talking to, and learning from. He has a very pleasant nature, though he will call a spade a spade if you are being deliberately foolish or ridiculous.

Lackey has a wonderful, beautiful ability to create these male characters for whom I can instantly come to feel something, often something deep and abiding that lingers and brings me joy when I see those characters once more. I enjoy her female characters, most definitely, root and cheer for them. But it’s those few guiding males that I often pay more attention to, as their work goes on behind the scenes in order to strengthen and help the female lead(s). It is a gorgeous talent and, for that, I thank you, Mercedes Lackey! ^_^

Link: http://www.mercedeslackey.com/books/elemental8.html

“Yes, another post about roleplaying”

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So the other night, in an online/live action X-men game that I play, my character set about comforting another PC who had been to emotional and mental hell and back during a live game session a few days before. And I have to admit that dear little Delilah did a pretty good job at comforting her distraught classmate without a single set of dice being thrown for skills or anything. *is rather proud of this fact* The scene was incredibly fun to run and was with someone with whom I do not get to play very often, which is always fun. 🙂 The player also gave me noms (nominations) for the scene: “Noms to Cheshire. It is almost insane how good a mom you’ll make someday.”

Delilah Croft, codename: “Cheshire” – illusionist

That made me feel nice. I do try to transfer my own mothering instincts into the character of Delilah/Cheshire,  as not many of my characters actually end up embodying that trait. She has walls, she can have a very prickly, cold nature if you’ve crossed her, but for those who manage to get through (over) the walls, if she has come to care for you, woe betide anyone who falls afoul of you and therefore afoul of her. Delilah is also one of those characters who embodies her fair share of bitterness. Almost all of my characters have a bitterness seed somewhere; something happened or been done to them that they will be working for years to overcome. Some of my characters have a seed of fear because of what they have done in the past or because of what they have lost. I almost cannot bear to have a character for whom all is perfect and hunky-dory, because then the character feel flat and false to me. Incomplete, as it were. I want my characters to be round and dynamic.

Now, my Hogwarts character, my little Ravenclaw, has had a better life than most of my characters and why not? Her generation hasn’t had to deal with the evils and terrors of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. They have become nightmare tales for her, told to her by her uncle Kingsley when he trips across the pond to visit her and her parents. That doesn’t meant that I’m going to leave my little Dulcet so porcelain perfect. Oh, no. She’s a teenager; things are bound to happen, as we all know.

The hubby and I were having a conversation the other day about roleplay characters and how people create them. I was getting fed up with something and he commented to me, “You know, I think we all create the same characters over and over again, just with different quirks to them.” That we all have essentially one idea that we are in love with and, no matter how many times we create characters and try to make them different and unique (thought they are), they will carry a bit of that beloved idea with them. Because that beloved idea is a part of us or perhaps something we wish was a part of us or that we could be.

Some people denegrate roleplaying as merely escapism and, yes, it can be a method of escapism, of getting away from the real world into one where you can do impossible things from time to time. But that is not all it is, I can assure you of that. For me, roleplaying games are a blessed opportunity to create a beautiful story with other people. And I have done just that. I have created beautiful, heartbreaking, uplifting stories with friends, my husband, and even new acquaintances that make me cherish characters and hold them to me long after their stories have ended. For me, much as for Jo March, it is the story that is the thing. I will put my characters through the worst I can think of, if it serves to create a wonderful story. Ask just about anyone that I have rp’ed with in the past and they can confirm my claim. If I can create a beautiful story, whether happy ending for my character or no, then I have served my purpose and my joy in roleplay.

And, what can I say? I’ve got a few more years of this left in me, at least. ^_~

“On Lullabies”

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I love lullabies! Absolutely adore them. This stems from my mother singing to me every night when I was a little girl; it was the only way I would go to sleep: if my mother laid in the bed with me and sang “Jesus Loves Me” and patted me gently until I feel asleep under the gentle hum of her voice and touch of her hand. I knew I was safe, I knew I was loved. And, over the years, I have collected lullabies to sing to myself and, now, to my child when it is born. My favorites include:

“Jesus Loves Me” (children’s Bible hymn)

“Baby Mine” (Dumbo, sung by Allison Kraus)

“Stay Awake” (Mary Poppins)

“Distant Melody” (Peter Pan play)

“In My Own Little Corner” (Rogers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella)

Dumbo and his mother as she rocks him to sleep.

And the hubby has also added a few of his own favorites lately, namely: “Rainbow Connection” (The Muppets) and “You’ll Be In My Heart” (Tarzan, bluegrass version).

To me, lullabies are tangible love. To sing them, to give of your voice to a little one or just someone who needs it at the moment, is an act of deep love, I believe. Lullabies are not necessarily something that you do out of habit. I think that it is a learned behavior. Little children learn it from parents, grandparents, nannies, older brothers and sisters, daycare teachers and pass it on to sleepy dollies and drowsy cats and dogs. I have already begun singing to our child. So far, “Baby Mine” is my favorite and I’m pretty sure that my mother will use “Jesus Loves Me” with her grand-punkin just as she did with me. Even to this day, when my mom sings “Jesus Loves Me”, it makes me tear up. The hubby will sing “Rainbow Connection” because it has a special place in his heart.

Singing soothes me, calms me, and I only hope that it will do the same for my little one.

Daily-quasi Writing – 7/2/2012 – “The Joys of Organization”

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My new fridge calendar. Yay for organization!

So, this past week, I bought a hanging file for our fridge for our bills, as well as a monthly calendar, to get ourselves all organized and to keep things in order. I’m already pretty organized as a person but I figured that we can always be more so, especially since we are going to be parents in December.

I find a particular joy in organization and paperwork, in filling out my bills and knowing that they are taken care of. I love to be able to find all my appointments at a glance, to be able to see my obligations and plans all in one space. I love having everything in its place and tidied away. I feel a particular type of triumph at being able to fit all my books somewhere on my shelves, getting my laundry folded and put away. There’s  a sweet satisfaction in a tidy and orderly house that I can’t quite explain  but it’s there. I remember when I was in graduate school, on Saturday mornings, I would throw my windows open to air our my room and clean – sweep, dust, Febreeze, do laundry, and tidy up. It just made me feel wonderful and accomplished to be able to take care of my life and my living space, and it still does now. As a wife, I do enjoy taking care of our home, making sure everything is where it should be and yet reasonably find-able when it’s needed. I mean, how would the hubby get along without me, since I know where everything is?

Today is a day for rediscovery it would seem

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This was written for those who still seek to ‘protect the princess’. With gratitude.

Born in the wrong century, he says.
No, I don’t think so.
The days of dragons and their taste for damsels may be gone,
But the world still needs the knight.
Instead of castles, you’re given dorms, apartment buildings.
Instead of horses, compact sedans.
Instead of a sword, you have a pen,
Or maybe an umbrella.
Times do not change, an old man said,
Only the details do.
Someone always needs to hear, “You’re beautiful.”
Someone will always be there to say, “Thank you.”
Chivalry is measured in the strength of your heart,
Not the size of your arm.
Sure, some will laugh and not understand.
But, for each of them, there’s one who will be swept away
And restored by a kindly act, a genuine word.
Epics are lived every day, the hearts of damsels saved every moment.
No, you were born in exactly the right century
With the perfect frame of mind.
Just a damsel’s word, take it for what it’s worth.

MGS 11/2004

June 26, 2012 – Poetry repost

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Now, honestly, I don’t read a lot of Harlem Renassiance poetry but this one is just lovely in how it’s written, I think. 🙂 I can just see it in a little girl’s scrapbook or something.

“To a Dark Girl”

I love you for your brownness,
And the rounded darkness of your breast;
I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice
And shadows where your wayward eyelids rest.

Something of old forgotten queens
Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk,
And something of the shackled slave
Sobs in the rhythm of your talk.

Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow’s mate,
Keep all you have of queenliness,
Forgetting that you once were slave,
And let your full lips laugh at Fate!

The Sweatshirt – written summer 2005

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Author’s Note: This was written the summer after Ben and I started dating and we were apart for four months, him here in Indiana and me with my family in the Cayman Islands.

 

It’s just an old sweatshirt, red and well worn, emblazoned with his alma mater. It fits him and swallows me whole but is always comfortable. Just a sweatshirt. There’s nothing really special about it. Wait! That’s a lie. It’s his. I wonder if he realizes, if he knows…?

“Take it with you so you’ll have something of me this summer,” he said, after I had already informed him of my intention to do so.

I hate summers. I hate being away, being apart.

I wonder if he has any idea of how many kisses are being held for him by that shirt? I’ve lost count myself, but it’s at least four a day. At least! My day begins and ends with kissing that shirt.

I have slept with it each and every night, beside me in the bed. A poor substitute for the man I miss. Its sleeve lies thrown across my tummy, just as if he held me while I slept. Every night, without fail. I wonder if he could imagine me glaring around my room angrily the day I came home to find that the shirt had been moved from my bed to my rocking chair?

I wonder, does he have any concept of how many tears lay dried upon that shirt’s sleeves, shoulders, and flaking white lettering? How many nights it’s heard me sob for God to let him know how much I miss him. How much I love him.

Sometimes, I wonder…can he have any idea how comforting it is to wrap him around me, even though the shirt stopped smelling solely of him weeks ago? I wonder if he could envision my joy at burying my nose in it and smelling his scent layered beneath mine?

This sweatshirt has become the dowry box for my hugs, its battered shape cuddled with when I become lonely or feel sad. If this old shirt could talk, it could tell him so many secrets and tales of my days without him. This sweatshirt could tell him, ever so much more eloquently than I, just how much I love, adore, and cherish him.

But, no. It will never talk. Never tell those secrets. It is just an old, red sweatshirt after all. But it’s his.