her mother's hands

It was an odd feeling

When she looked down and saw

Her mother's hands.

There, at the ends of her own arms,

Resting quietly in her own lap,

Her own hands, and yet not.

She stared for a while, wondering.

When did they sneak in,

These undeniable signs of time passing?

Her mind drifted, her thoughts flowed

To hugs and talks and tears and smiles

And years and miles and pain and love.

All that was left now were memories

And a heart left wishing and sad,

But grateful for the time they'd shared.

It was a comforting feeling

As she looked down and saw

Her mother's hands.

may day number seven

So here we are, another May Day, another anniversary of "The Worst Ever Migraine That Wasn't Actually a Migraine Haha Fooled You". Six years of shingles-caused nerve damage to my face and head, six years of twitching and cursing and crying and learning things about pain that you never really wanted to know (like there is a specific smell to "pain sweat", and my posture changes when the pain is higher as my body unconsciously tries to curl away from the source of the pain, and that distraction can actually be a somewhat effective pain-management technique (but it's hard to keep it going for long), and that pain spikes lead to adrenaline rushes lead to adrenaline crashes).

So yeah, here I am. Thanks and hugs (and apologies and sympathy) to the folks who deal with the fallout, I'm lucky to have you. Sometimes when the mask slips, when the resources just aren't there to keep the wall up, you guys bear the brunt of it...thanks for putting up with it all. Love you.

And to show it's not all bad, here is one of many moments of joy: A silly pic caught by my friend as she, her kids, and I were dragging our "Wreck This Journal" around by a string (so much fun, seriously, you should buy the book and give in to the silliness).

Stacey and her pet journal going for
a walk around the neighborhood