My father, both on his birthday and on Christmas, would refuse his gifts. It was not so much an act of anti-materialism as it was an odd attempt to shame us for wanting to express love or thoughtfulness toward him. That he thought so little of us that he did not want our gifts or attention. I knew that it was himself he thought so little of, but it was sad to watch him grumbling about attempting to press his non-consentual crown of thorns atop our silent heads.
I.
This afternoon I sat across the table from a woman who has the most perfect Cupid's bow of her upper lip. While we talked, I kept wondering if she put highlighter on it to accentuate this fact. The jury is still out on that one. Either way, it is gorgeous.
I.
Tonight I walked through a neighborhood that smelled identical to the neighborhood I grew up in during the summertime. I know that it is supposed to rain the next many days. Somehow the beauty of today and the drear of tomorrow are quite fitting. They both exist. The fingers of lovers hands intertwining while they sleep.
I.
Happy birthday to you. Let the ones who love you, love you.
There's nothing sadder than a tortured soul wandering about denying all that he secretly wants deep within his heart of broken hearts.
Be well; be loved,
k.
(image credit: Maximillian Virgili via maximillianvirgili dot com)
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