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I’m on my own
Receptionless
Fire in the place
Fire in the hole
The red lights come on in my car as if inflammed by some vague disease that’s silently bubbling up from bone marrow
There’s a short circuit in my circuit
There’s a short circuit in my circus
Something’s amiss
I’m receptionless
This side of the road isn’t any different than the other side except it goes in another direction and a dump truck is quickly approaching my side
There is no shoulder.
The situation as it is is this: I find myself contemplating whether I should take Poppy with me when I travel. More specifically, her ashes. She hated car rides so I think she’d be okay with staying home. On the other hand, I think she should be with family. Practical considerations have a way of drying up the tears. Or maybe not.
I miss saying her name.
She came into my life the year your father left.
They breathed the same air in my world for 3 months.
For 3 years since he died I’ve been waiting on profound insights.
For 18 days since she died I’ve been waiting on profound insights.
Now I get it.
There aren’t any.
The **** giveth and the **** taketh away
But *** is a little bitch
Who takes all the Poppies away.
Thread 1: Lucy saved me Tuesday and Wednesday from coming home to an empty window where Poppy used to sit, faithfully waiting for me (Picture 1). Yesterday, there was only an empty window and a slit in the curtains that Poppy would poke her head through (Picture 2).
Thread 2: The other day I was looking through Poppy pictures and came across a few I’d taken as a joke: I’d put my glasses on her and a book in front of her. Silly but cute. See Picture 3.
Thread together: As I came down the stairs this morning, the slit in the curtains was open to reveal my glasses looking out of the window (Picture 4). I had lost them in one place or another and have no idea how they got there, but it meant something to me. A small sign perhaps that my Poppy is still watching and waiting for me—as diligent and faithful as ever.
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- Picture 1
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- Picture 2
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- Picture 3
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- Picture 4
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
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