Morning Musings

In this, my winter of discontent, spring has come early, earlier than expected and I am eternally grateful. 

The Tuscan sun is my companion and I find her warmth burgeoning up from my belly and building in my chest. Henry the VIII and poetry are my bedfellows and don't mind that I sleep in the center now. Morning coffee, resplendent with the alluring notes of Hawaii, slips down my throat warming me through and through. Birds outside trill their happiness for an early morning rain which replenished their bath. I make a note to fill the bird feeders in appreciation for their song.

For the first time , in a long time, I am intensely thankful for those who are no longer here for no longer being here. I am thankful for the quiet and peace their absence brings. I am thankful the only demons in my bed are mine, for I know them and know the pace of their walk.

As peace has returned so have my words and I greet them like long-lost friends. We sit together amiably and share the bounty of our table. The words have brought with them newfound love; hearth and home, flavors and friends, adventure and awe.  In this, I envision creating new words to describe new experiences, new people, new discoveries.

I am building a path to the deepest recesses of my heart even before I have met the explorer courageous enough to make the trek and build a home there. I am not for the faint of heart (in spending time with myself I am coming to realize this more deeply than ever), but believe a worthy match will be courageous enough to face her own demons as I face mine and, in time, nestle into the comfort of the 'we' of us.

In all of this, I feel a deep and abiding patience. There is no rush for I believe time and the universe are on my side.

~ Mk Michaels

Dad's Evergreen Home

It was the place I called home,

sort of.

Dad’s home

for nearly four decades.

 

After the divorce

I stayed there,

with him

Wednesdays and

every other weekend,

the typical dad schedule.

From the rock hard twin beds

to the displays of

circus wagons and magic tricks,

nothing changed;

Dad and his home were constants

in a life riddled with inconsistency.

 

Reaching adulthood,

I would visit

more often at first,

less so when

I was busy with my own family.

Never changing,

Dad’s home stayed the same

except for the time

he developed a crush

on an interior decorator

She painted

his beige walls forest green.

 

For twenty years,

those forest green walls

remained.

Dated,

but as constant

as the forests they mimicked.

 

Dad died a year ago

and words like probate and estate,

found their way into my vocabulary.

Those words clogged my throat

and I just wanted to go home

to the constant ever-green of Dad’s living room

so I could breath again.

 

The forest is gone now,

painted over

in a more marketable color,

or so I am told.

The forest has turned light grey,

the color of skies before a storm,

but the walls

enclosing my Dad’s home

were still accessible,

for a time.

 

At the closing table,

they disappeared too.

Those walls, like my Dad,

were impenetrable,

dated, but

always there.

Always.

Until they weren’t.

 

~ Mk Michaels

Regression

The woman I met

and brought into my heart
and home
was
smart, crazy smart
attractive, sensual
kind, generous
adventurous, a seasoned traveler
and steady.

Having survived a relationship
typified by ugly attacks,
deep insecurity, and
the assaults that went with it,
I needed and sought out
the perceived calm of her.

The connection was immediate,
intense and deep.
I saw a future
spanning decades,
until death,
a life in which we each
would love support one another,
activists in our own right,
the whole being greater than the sum.

…but all was not what it seemed.
I know that now.

She was a daughter,
so starved by her mother for affection,
she ate whatever was offered
even when it was toxic.
A constant diet of shame
about virtually everything
from what I could gather;
her body,
her skin,
her teeth,
her sex,
herself.
Thus an adult grew,
paralyzed by her own fears
and need for approval.
Still starving.

Although our start was strong,
the connection deep,

and the attention plentiful
based on the mere whiff of the perceived threat
that she would starve yet again,
she regressed.
She turned into a child
before my eyes;
her demeanor,
her needs,
her voice,
her mannerisms,
her tantrums,
her.

Childish manipulations
to get what she needed
commenced
and, I
rooted in my own need to have her stay,

flexed,

dialogued,
comforted,
reassured,
and showed up
until the day I couldn’t
anymore.

She turned into a child
virtually overnight
and, I realize in hindsight,

my lover
became a daughter of sorts,

she looking to me

to satisfy her,
complete her,
be the spark of life
that allowed her to thrive.

I am a great mother
to my daughter, my son,
and while I am certain this is part of
what drew her to me,
I cannot baby a lover
….and still be able to fuck her.

~ Mk Michaels