The honest ink.

Eight years ago I read something about a man named Grace. It moved me so, and I found myself searching for him without realizing.

Grace was my fictitious emotional cherry popper. Prior to him, I had never fallen in love with a fictional character. I was raised to believe that you love the art, not the artist. The music, not the musician. The word, not the writer. You can appreciate them as a vessel, but it goes no further. But Grace, though a product of the printed word, became real in my mind. He wasn’t a character, he was a real person that was out there that this printed word was based upon.

A few years after the first reading, I realized what was happening and I made it stop.

The process that followed was like losing a loved one to death. I suppose the timing was appropriate because that was a period of time in my life when my family, friends, and lovers were dropping like flies.

So, to aid in this process of loss, I started developing ridiculously honest relationships with strangers. Single serving people as Palahniuk put it.

And through time it became something much more than bumping into someone and starting a conversation… I had started writing strangers. I’d pick a random address. (Be it in the local white pages or an online phone book.) I’d write to them about myself, about what was plaguing me that I couldn’t shake, or random thoughts and ideas I couldn’t get out of my head. (Coincidentally, not long ago, I offered this bit to a fellow blogger that I’m rather fond of.)

Through the years I’ve received a lot of responses back. I have a box under my bed with all of these saved letters. Some of the most personal and intimate things a person could ever hear… All because it was completely safe. It was letting go without forgetting. It was the best part about being a human. And that’s all it ever was. So completely perfect. Neatly packaged in white envelopes. Black and blue inks bruising the pages.

Three weeks ago, I sent a letter out to the middle of nowhere Montana.

Saturday, I received a response…

To date, it’s the most moving, the most needed. She was immaculate, gorgeous, and I loved her as any child would love its mother.

Last night, I painted her… The image of what she is in my mind.

I haven’t painted, really painted, in quite some time. Too wrapped up in other arts and endeavors.

But last night, I painted her. Upon it’s completion, I stood there and sobbed. I sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

It was my best work, in my opinion… It was the most honest thing I’ve ever done. There were no walls, no constraints. There was no one pushing my pace, forcing reaction, creation. It simply flowed out in a matter of hours that passed like minutes.

Her maiden name was Grace, bringing everything in my mind full circle.

And had I never gotten lost that day I found my favorite bookstore,
Had I not craned my neck to see the captivating title,
Had I not lost my family, my friends, my lovers,
Had I not developed a loving relationship with strangers,
Had I not craved to write secrets on blank papers,
I never would have found her.

This thing that ties it all back to Grace.

A word that surely from now on, will always come with a capital G.

A boy can’t say no to his tooth.

As I was laying in bed finishing up some work, her littlest one lays down next to me, clutching his tummy.
He ate too many sour candies against his mother’s permission.

“Are you still all grumbly inside, jellybean?” I ask.
So quietly, something abnormal for him, he says, “Yesh. It won’t stop making noises.”
“Want some blanket? We can snuggle and watch videos.”

He nods his head, curls up next to me. Snuggled tightly, with the laptop on my lap, I open up some of my favorite videos.

We start with a short film called The Forest.
As he watches the little animated girl on the screen his hands reach for my hair. He twirls it around his fingers until the video ends.
“I knew it was a gun. I thought it might be pretend, like the forest, but I knew it was all real after all.”

We then moved onto something sweeter. How To Melt a Chocolate Bunny. The music throughout it relaxed him, and he murmured at a few parts deep within his own thought. His little toes tracing my knee. Upon it’s conclusion he said, “Shawi, I don’t want to eat any more bunnies for Easter. Will you tell Mommy and Doey for me?”

I closed the browser window and said, “I think it’s almost time for bed, little man. Let’s go find your Mom.” He got a little sad, a little more quiet before finally saying, “But I got my jammies on already. One more Shawi… Please? I want to see them. I like these stories.”

Sick kids break my heart, and I can’t say no, even though I hear his mother calling.

I start one more called The Cathedral. Instantly he hones in on it. I watched him watching it for a while. His deep green eyes aglow with the images flickering across the screen, his soft red cheeks, one hand on his heart, one on mine. When it ends he says, “Me too.” I’m a little thrown off by the small statement and don’t know what to say so I kiss the top of his head.

“Come on jellybean, it’s time for bed.”

Who says lump equals sum?

The first night I had ever met him we were in a loud and cramped place. Sure, I heard about him, and he had heard bits about me.
He walked up to me, looked me square in the eye, neither acknowledging nor dismissing the people I was with, the people he knew.
“You must be Shari,” he said.
He grabbed my face, both hands on my cheeks, “You are gorgeous.”
It was kind of dark in that place.

The second time I met him he kissed me within ten minutes and I didn’t disprove.

The third time I met him he put his business card in my pocket and asked me to call. I never did and the card ended up being washed the next time I did my laundry.

The fourth time, he wised up. Asked for my number and danced with me all night.

The fifth time…

I decided to give it a go.