Punctuation Rules (Part 1) - The Way We Choose to Live....

How one punctuates a group of words is telling. We punctuate sentences with what we know about reading, writing, and thinking. In a similar way, we punctuate our lives with decisions and live with the results thereof. "The Way We Choose to Live."

Each "slice of life" is titled with a punctuation mark, but the punctuation mark is pronounced in the subtitle beneath. The subtitles are the ideas the marks represent to me, either in form or feeling.

(  ) 

(pronounced "Embrace")

It amazes me how easily she slides into my hands in the middle of the night...like she knows exactly when I'm wondering where she is. And my hand touches my sex...and she's there, where she's always been. Held in my hands, between my pride and my shame.

And without opening my eyes, I slide her up...down...stop. Up...down...up...down. Stop. Up. Down. Up. Down. Soon the directions blur together. Never mattered anyway. She can do whatever she wants to me then. I'm clay in her hands.

And she ends up a mess in mine...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

.

(pronounced "End")

When it begins, I can't help feeling finished. I suddenly remember my age. Ponder my marital and parental status. I'm an emotional little girl on the inside; an undeniable woman on the outside. There is no lady in sight.

I remember Adam. Wonder if he doesn't love me because of this...if he feels more sinful because my body is out of order but looks operational and enticing. I want to cry, but the Eve in me is strong...and knows the truth.

So I sleep instead, contorting my body throughout the night to relax the pain I'm too exhausted to address. My mind flashes scenes of life many moons ago and tries to predict many moons ahead. When I wake up, I'm still in the middle of my own mess. I pull myself up and attempt to wash it all away. It only works temporarily before the flood returns, the pain crashing through me like tidal waves, yielding only temporarily to pharmaceuticals.

When it goes, I am relieved. I eat and sleep better. My purse is lighter and often smaller. Eve has disappeared, I'm left to deal with me, her distant ancestor, shaking strange fruit from our family tree. My caverns don't swell and flood. They are dark and empty. I am bit sad for it. Like it or not, it was the only reminder of my femininity, which dwells deep in my heart, but is held captive by my pride. And when it never returns, I know I will struggle with what it means to have an impact on the world if I have not made a significant dent in those prison bars.

It makes me eloquent when others deem it a curse. It is what could have been, thrown away so I can live healthily. It is the first half of an "us" that isn't likely...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Picture by Andraya Arrington

,

(pronounced "Pause")

You forget for a minute...

You forget why you're on the wrong side of the bed,

facing the window instead of the closet.

And then you hear breathing in the dark that isn't yours.

The bed dips beneath him.

For a second everything is as you imagine.
Quiet,
comfortable,
frozen in the moment of sheer happiness,
but the alarm breaks his sleep and your dream.

He rises,

no shine,

no kiss,

no idea that for a split second, he had it all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-

(pronounced "Attached")

As I stand here in "virgin-white," I think I'm being gypped. Hyphenation with minimal representation. 

But...this, indeed, may be my last chance at that power move so important to that piece of the pie Willona sang about in the opening of "The Jeffersons." The agreement that makes me honest while swallowing my bloodline in a goulash of uncertain ancestry. I mean...he doesn't even really know his father, yet he clings to the surname as if there is any honor in blind bastard-naming. (And this pomp and circumstance is supposed to be making me honest.) 

I blame his mother as she sits there weeping in the front row because she's losing her son - the instant ally made so, in utero, as a then-lover turned his back her and their tummy bug. They outnumber me and my logic, using King James' version of God's proclamation to make me feel Eve all over again. (She was coerced too, ya know!) I'm not judging his family; I'm a bastard in my own right, last-named because my mother couldn't stand the alliteration of my first name and her last name together. Daddy's name was the only suitable option (even though he wasn't suitable for anything else). All that aside, it's still MY name...

In my Adam's pursuit to offer his name to this single gal, he offered it with a ring...and I accepted. Now I'm wondering if that was just bribery - a shiny bauble in exchange for a lifetime of memories as someone else. And though my birth certificate, diploma, and degrees boast my bloodline, every accomplishment henceforth will include his.

My successes are now ours, and his success is...me...

I do?