God Bless Y'all.

 My cousin owns a store called The Wrinkled Egg. 

I remember when I first heard the name.

I can’t remember the story behind the name-

I know there was one.

 

We were all at either Applebee’s or Ruby Tuesdays, 

My memory merges those two place together often… I can’t help it. 

It was the 90's and these two ruled the town.

We were all piled up in a booth, and yes we are all family, but there were officially and confidentially too many small and big pairs of hips sticking to each other.

I remember that part too.

 

My cousin told us all about the store, 

That she was starting it, that she named it, that she lived down the street from it.

Before I knew it, I was holding a brochure.

It was a trifold- a silky, orangish-reddish kind of thing that felt good to slide through my fingers.

I think I was somewhere close to 10, but that’s also the age I offer to myself when memory gets muggy.

 

If the same someone lingered at all my stories, they would have thought I must have hit the jackpot of life at age 10- all the people I met, decisions I made….

 

Anyway, I didn’t really understand the store or why she was doing it all.

It felt a little risky to me, but I do remember thinking,

“Man, she’s cool.”

 

My horse-loving, church league basketball playing, “Can we order more cheese sticks and Sprite?” self, thought she had all and every bit of her life together.

 

Her name?

Virginia.

 

Her store is still standing, thriving actually, on the edge of Asheville, North Carolina.

And she still is one of my coolest cousins.

 

During this new normal of Pandemic Times, 

I am on a handful of group texts, one of them including Virginia and other cousins and aunts and uncles across Alabama, Florida, North Carolina, California, and Tennessee.

 

“This thing is getting more and more serious, but don’t panic,” my dad preaches.

He is always the self-proclaimed preacher with text typos running through his words like tangles at the back of a little girl’s head before bedtime.

 

“Be sure to thank those in the medical field,” my cousin George chimed in.

 

“Well, I still have the store open.. and I just went and bought some extra hay for our horses to support the other small business down the road.”

(This was Virginia).

 

So much has changed even since that group text exchange at the middle of last week. 

 

“Here, watch this video to understand the spread of the virus.”
That was Aunt Wanda.

In a different group text with her husband and me (officially Uncle Frank), sweet and soft-voice Wanda would get a bit political.

But not here.

She knew her complicated audience-

(Extended) Family.

 

“God Bless Y’all.”

That was Aunt Cathy.

She never had much to say beyond blessings. 

It Was Just Us.

 We were in Florence. 

My mom and I were not used to spending this much time together.

None of the other mother-daughter combos with the twangy 

and sometimes embarrassing “We’re from the Deep-South and we know it” accents 

had invited us to dinner. 

It was just us, 

Again.

 

My mom was tired of all the walking, and I was tired of all the Trump-talk and the, 

“Oh, we’re saving this special handmade Italian lace for her wedding” talk on the bus.

Like that was the only thing that mattered in a girl’s life.

Waiting for a wedding.

 

How did I end up… here?

With all of these strangers, on a boxy and uncomfortable, loud tourist-shouting bus in Italy? (I wouldn’t necessarily say this is how I prefer to travel).

 

And what would I tell myself now, three years later?

You really don’t get trips like this with your mom.

Put your phone down- he’s not going to last, and he’s desperate.

You will soon tell all of your friends and every person that begins to say the word Italy,

that this was the best meal you’ve ever had in your life.

 

Creamy, rich pasta with deep maroon, stain-threatening, 

“It’s okay, I’m on vacation and I’m walking home anyway” red wine,

And Mom.

 

Your mom is here,

Your mom is perfect.

 

 

 

Our Sky Angel

“What does this door go to?”

 

A very innocent and common question, usually asked from a friend or a cousin or a babysitter as they eagerly and questioningly stood in the corner of my green and pink, wallpapery room

 

The door was ice cream-white but disguised with animal stickers, then later, lots and lots of photos.

These photos were tiny snapshots of a special moment at a friend’s birthday party or a sweaty, slow day at summer camp.

But either way, there were enough layered years of sticky things against that poor door that my dad would get annoyingly frustrated.

 

“This will tear off the paint,” he scolded, and I would rebelliously roll my eyes or turn a shoulder and ignore the very words that, quite literally, just filled up our space.

Like his “Debby Downer” comment never even happened. 

 

Anyway, the door.

What does it go to?

 

“The attic,” I answered back in a mature, sophisticated manner.

I usually opened the magical, mysterious door like a proud mother showing off never-ending “Why does she keep showing me these?” pictures of her new baby.

 

There was the nearly life-size dollhouse in the corner that my parents picked up in Mentone.

It was made to look just like our house at the time, green shutters and all.

 

And of course, the glow-in-the-dark stars forever pressed against the ceiling.

(Those stars decorated the exact place that my 6^thgrade best friend Caroline taught me how to put a bra on with the snaps in the front, right above my belly button, instead of blindly twisting and turning for an hour and a half to hear that final click of a snap behind me). 

 

There were my horse ribbons mounted and showcased so elegantly against the chalkboard at the back of the attic, ribbons from hunter jumper extravaganzas all across the hot, sticky state of Alabama.

 

And don’t forget the forgotten dusty drawers of my oldest brother’s basketball cards, neatly rubberbanded and stacked. 

There were so many of them, they were bound to outweigh the dresser they lived in.

 

Oh, and the old Barbie and Ken playsets up against the leaning-left “Don’t hit your head on the ceiling” corner.

 

The attic was my favorite hideaway as a kid with the same ice cream-white walls and ceiling as the door that led to its concealed quarters. 

This top-secret space was like my very own version of a glamorous, grownup studio apartment in the city.

A treehouse loft somewhere far and fancy like Birmingham, with its wood floors and perfect rectangular sky window.

 

This dreamlike window was a shared eye into the outside world-

Sometimes I borrowed the eye to look at the Sky, 

And sometimes she borrowed the eye to look at me. 

 

And I wonder, Was this where I fell in love with the color blue?

Our Sky Angel, 

She held us.

She watched our games and listened to our songs and giggles like they were her own.

 

She knew us, 

She knew me.

 

 

 

 

 

Time-Stopping Days.

I miss holding Caroline’s hand.

Always warm, sometimes sticky.

And little.

So little.

It was a part-time job.

Sometimes I think of Caroline,

And I feel a brick stack of guilt in my lower belly.

I was distracted.

Lists of chores scrolling down my head, like movie credits, tiny white-print scribbles against a backdrop of midnight black.

See, I was afraid I would forget something, and the list was my anchor-

Or so it seemed.

Sometimes, lots of times,

I was on the phone in the car a whole 40 minutes home,

Sometimes longer with traffic.

Caroline would cry every once in a while, like an alarm reminding me I wasn’t paying attention.

I would eventually hang up.

Those moments add to my ever-growing brick stack.

This time last year on our drive I would say,

“Caroline, should we count the purple trees?”

I hope she still counts them in April,

And I hope I am more present in the car next time.

No matter how much I try to wash my car, Caroline’s fingerprints are still there at the edge of the back door on the passenger side.

These were probably from the moments she waited for me to quickly, sometimes frantically, unlock the door and get her car seat settled.

And let me tell you, dealing with the car seat alone will make anyone with a brain hesitant to pursue becoming a parent- It’s impossible.

But let me tell you something else- 

If I’m being honest, I don’t want her fingerprints to be erased. 

Not yet.

Will I be a distracted parent?

You know, if I ever do have kids?

Will I forget to count the purple trees in April and sing even when I don’t want to and get off my damn phone?

My mom was distracted often, you know, with adult stuff.

We are close, and I forgive her.

We have always been close.

But I remember feeling anxious with her sometimes.

Like she was in a hurry.

She was always in a hurry, it seemed.

Perhaps in the same way I could be with Caroline in the car ride home.

But also, I remember this:

The many, many mornings I would practice my singing voice with Mom before she dropped me off at school.

Those were my favorite moments with her.

Me leaning forward toward the edge of my seat, so focused on the sound of my voice and desperate to hear her feedback after each song. 

Was I getting better?

No one was rushed, it seemed, those mornings.

And the best part?

It was just me and Mom because my brothers could drive at that point and they went to another boring building for their school.

One day Mom told me that she shared with the women at her Bible Study that those were her favorite moments with me too. 

When I would sing us all the way to school.

Time stopped on those Alabama roads, 

It just did.

I pray for more time-stopping days, always.

Regina is Russian

I run, sometimes.

I walk, hardly ever.

Until now.

When my plans have changed and my schedule has shifted, 

All by force.

Humans have fallen into the hands of Nature.

Here’s to the Coronavirus 2020.

I used to write songs in my early 20’s.

I had a lyric that sang,

“I walk all day to finally say, 

The old has gone away

And I have returned with a new name.”

The sound of it was decent.

I even tried to imitate Regina Spektor in how I emphasized “return”.

She was one of my favorites at the time.

I mean, who wouldn’t say that in 2010?

When a friend of mine first listened to this song, he kindly asked,

“Wait, how do you say ‘return’?”

I get it: I was trying too hard, and the way I sang it with a “th” sound for the t is not anywhere close to how I actually say the word.

I mean, let’s be honest, Regina is Russian. 

I am most definitely not Russian.

The meaning behind that song fell to the tune of a bad breakup and finding my voice again.

I think I was writing about my high school boyfriend who I dated for a year and a half but had some leftover stains and stubbles to deal with in college.

He kept dating my friends… kept showing up at bars and parties…you know, that kind of ex.

The type that’s hard to never see again, which is usually my style of a breakup.

The thing is, I often do this thing in relationships where I get scared to use my voice.

In fact, I shrink.

My voice gets tiny.

With age I am getting better, I promise.

My vocal chords are gaining strength and my impulse to run has weakened.

You know what?

Sometimes life calls us to walk.

Whether it be all day or for a 20 minute rush out the door when we are cooped up in our houses, quarantined for what seems like decades.

What does it look like for you, for me, for all of us, to walk right now?

To casually but mindfully take one step after another at a slower pace than normal, perhaps with an announcement or statement or yes, a “new name”… or perhaps not. 

Sometimes it’s nothing more than just that: 

A walk.

Rain Check.

Stops you in your tracks, that rain.
Slows ya down,
Shuts ya up,
Calms ya down,
... if you let it.

My rain is your rain,
We share it.
And it smells good today
As I sit on the back porch and watch the puddles form against the pavement.

Some days, not every day,
We curse at the rain.
Changing our plans every which-away.
How dare you, rain!

But Today?

It slows me down,
It shuts me up,
It calms me down,
...I'm lettin it.

The Things That Get Us Out of Bed.

Last spring, packed right between a visit back home to Alabama- the playful, sing-song voices of my niece and nephew still echoing in my ear- and what was supposed to be a visit in the other direction to White Bluff, Tennessee for a visit with my boyfriend’s family…

I got food poisoning.

Yes.

Food. 

Poisoning.

Kept me up all night.

And all night, I swapped between the bathroom and the bed constantly, like a full moon-shaped ping pong ball, tossed between a more-than tipsy Vanderbilt freshman guy and a curly-haired, mascara-heavy girl down at Clyde’s on Church Street. 

Sometimes just racing and praying I make it in time.

If you have ever had this curse of the stomach, this curse of humanity, rather… 

I’m sorry. 

And… you know. 

In a similar way to extreme weather changing your plans and cancelling the concert, postponing the dance or the baseball game or the soccer game... getting sick, (like… food poisoning sick…) literally stops you in your tracks. 

There is no moving around it.

At ALL. 

It has all authority and you have no choice but to play by the rules:

Sleep when you can.

Medicate.

Eventually eat saltines and pray you can hold it down. 

Finally, though...

I make it to my garden.

My plants need water like I need calories.

For the first time in a long time,

I can actually stand up again.

So I know it’s Time.

Here I was, coming out of a stomach bug, dazed and confused like a cast member of the Walking Dead, endlessly roaming.

I wore a blank, grossly pale face.
My limbs were nearly broken, but doing their job...just barely.

And all my movements were sticky, like I was first learning how to walk again.

The things that get us out of bed-

Sometimes they’ll surprise you. 

And there he was.

Mowing my lawn.

I sat down on my front steps, knees drawn in, just watching him.

When he sees me, he stops the lawnmower to come over.

You know... to give me a hug and check in.

I forget about the plants for a moment. 

As soon as he hugs me, I cry.

Like a little girl.

But I was okay with it.

I wanted to be near him.

As Dark as Midnight

What is happening? 

Golfball-sized eyeballs and sticky handprints, glued to the glass.

Waiting.

Waiting for truth to unfold, facts to emerge, and solid, concrete answers to lingering, ever-growing questions, like tiny beads of a mile-long necklace.

I am reminded of an aquarium.

Just standing, in awe of nature, in all of its forms.

Some of us shocked, some of us at a complete standstill.

Just watching from the other side of the glass.

I remember visiting the Chattanooga aquarium with a busload of high school students from Stratford out of East Nashville, back when bumpy roads and old, forgotten houses were still its neighbor.

Terrified I was going to lose one of the eight girls in my group,
I could hardly enjoy it.

I was constantly counting heads and looking over my shoulder like I was checking my blind spot, about to change lanes.

The hallways and handrails were as dark as midnight.

I remember a few weeks ago when Brandon and I drove to North Carolina overnight in the snow.

Terrified I was going to wreck the car and slip and slide all the way down the mountain, I could hardly enjoy it.

Threatening roads, hard-to-see cars, my lack of experience… and this time, the backdrop to our “fairytale snow” was as dark as midnight.

And this?

Well, this is completely new territory for me.

Staying home, not teaching yoga, not visiting schools and the Detention Center…

Some times, more than other times, robotically scrolling through Facebook and Instagram in search of… 

Something.

I can hardly enjoy it.