The Purity In Dreaming

I've written my letter to Santa. Kind of early I know, but its been written and sent. The list is long and it's not the usual "I want peace on earth" as it's been other years. Oh, don't get me wrong, I still wish for what is truly the unattainable gift. This years list just happens to be a little selfish, a little "all about me". It consists of 101 different things I've been drooling over to furnish the new house, which by the way, is well on its way to being done. Hopefully all construction on it will be complete right before my birthday.

"What do you want for your Birthday?" He asks.
"To make that house a home." I say.

Is it wrong that I still sometimes allow myself to dream that silly dream. The one where I end up having my happily ever after. The dream where all wrongs are forgotten and love is beautiful. I still dream that all this wanting in my heart for love that wont go away, for finally finding my place, my home, isn't too much for me to ask for. I think I've been a good enough girl. I think I deserve it. I truly hope I do.

Love After Love

Wake up to the smell of wood burning in the fireplace, hot cup of coffee with a small piece of banana nut bread bought at the farmers market before I walk out the door to face the day. Take a deep breath of crisp air. Walk to the car. So much to do today. Look at the sky, autumn blue, look at the leaves, a kaleidoscope of amber. I go on about my day, I go on about my life. Everything has changed yet everything is still the same. Driving, pass pumpkin adorned front yards. Maybe it's the change of seasons, maybe it is the feel of the holidays looming around the corner that make me smile. Holidays to be spent in a house that love is building. A house to be filled with treasures and memories and kids and hope.

Maybe it's just me.

Happy once again.

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.


-Derek Walcott