Sometimes at night you can’t see the moon, but you know it’s there though because where would it go?

And Sarah Jessica always says “good morning” with her magical smile and each tooth so perfectly shaped that you want to be jealous but the electricity that is generated by her voice is so intoxicating and really you just want to sit across from her at a coffee shop and twirl your hair as her mouth forms words you aren’t really listening to.

Sometimes at night the moon at night looks like a blur of light mistakenly resembling a UFO that you’ve never really seen but your mind can fill in the blanks

And the little alligator will eat the snails if you don’t save them and it is still a mystery how he managed to get inside their house without being noticed, but once in your hands he seems so harmless with teeth the simple sharpness of a new puppy

Sometimes at night the moon shines so bright the sky looks like a mirror and upon staring with a level of stillness that is never capable during the daytime hours, you see what is real; not just what you want

Sarah Jessica embodies everything you wish you could be, but with her long hair tied up with a pencil she is probably more like you than you than you give yourself credit, the alligator doesn’t want to cause harm, he was just trying to make friends and forgot that his jaws were so incredibly crushing, and what you believed in is still real even if it isn’t wearing the same face and “even though it all went wrong, you stand before the lord of song with nothing on your tongue but ‘hallelujah.”

In my head as I get dressed, The Black Eyed Peas “I Gotta Feeling” is getting louder and louder until it feels as if the pounding in my ears matches he pulse of my heart. This is a night I have been anticipating for months and for the first time in a LONG time, it’s mine. I must share this feeling with no one. And frankly, even if I wanted to, unless you lived in my head you wouldn’t understand it anyway. I look at my reflection in the mirror and I don’t see the little heartless girl from a small town in Texas, it is an updated version of the Grinch because my heart has somehow grown 2 sizes.

All the moving parts are turning and twisting. The presentation is moving along like a well-oiled machine and rather than butterflies in my tummy, it sort of feels like a hamster running circles in his stationary wheel. I stand up, I sit down. I am not quite sure what to with my hands and my arms suddenly feel incredibly long like I could twist them twice around my waist and still manage a princess wave. I notice my hands and question why I painted my nails. I am distracted. Breathe. Focus. Just as my mind is returning to the surroundings, I stand and then sit. Again. But this time, somehow my skirt catches on the pew and as I glide back to anchor my shoulders across the back of my seat. It isn’t until I cross my legs that I sense the coolness of the wood across my bare bottom. It is all I can do not to roll my eyes. Seriously? Not only am I rethinking my choice of underpants, I mean who wears a thong to their confirmation?!, but I cannot pull from my head how unbelievably inappropriate it is and how this cannot be what I remember from this night!

I shake it off. Minor details. The echoes, the sound of bells ringing. Then I am kneeling, enacting some sort of vison or dream, I honestly cannot make sense of it all. But he is crying, But I am not. I try to be brave and hold this wounded child in my hands, but I remember I am not a mother. I am barely a person. Then the moment when all our hands connect this bolt of electricity takes away my breath. I turn to look at her, but she’s no longer sitting where I left her and the whole space is empty like a forgotten tomb. There is an elephant on my chest and I desperately want to stand and run. But where? Wait. Stop. This is where I am meant to be.

Fast forward. It’s cold, but my forehead is warm from the oil. It drips into my eyes and I wipe it away only to notice mascara on my fingers because I have indeed been crying after all. I stand and turn one final time on new legs that I am convinced will never let me fall to far into the dark ever again.

You must be a few whiskeys in before you can truly comprehend the genius behind Hemingway. There is a certain threshold of boundaries that simply dissolve and allow thoughts and feelings to flow through a siphon to establish a pure formed story. Time and space probably play a part, but that is harder to pinpoint. With this siphon, what stays, what is flushed out, it is impossible to decipher but what emerges is either amazing or utter garbage to the reader.

Her head was full. It was like the days when she was a smoker and would walk outside to strike a match. With the first inhale of smoke filling her lungs something was released. An exhale of joy or sadness whatever the moment held. A promise made but somehow forgotten. When would it end really? Self-sacrifice or forgiveness of others never really filled the void this had all made in her heart. An attempt to explain it seemed ridiculous. Win some, lose some, but somehow this was different. She needed answers, she needed someone other than herself to be an adult, be who they claimed to be, accept some responsibility.

You see her. How could she be missed in a cathedral full of smiles, polished looks and muddy shoes? Her hair is matted, and strands twisted strands peeking from underneath the worn hat. Her eyes wide and rimmed with red from numerous late nights and early mornings. Shaky hands that continue to twirl her hair and make swift swipes under a dry nose. You can’t stop and say hello because that would just open the can of worms you know she has been carrying in her handbag for months. And to acknowledge the hidden can might mean you made a mistake. But it is there. Pulsing like a heartbeat that is destined to survive. It is not going away anytime soon. She stands. Begins walking toward the alter. Either unaware or uncaring of the eyes that are burning into the back of her neck. “You left me,” she whispers, but in the quiet space it almost sounds like a scream. “You left me, and no one can explain why” she mutters as she falls to her knees. His robe creates a swoosh as he turns to walk away.

Her hand reaches out just in time to feel the silky fabric flutter through her hand. She clutches her fist around the empty air. She stands and turns to face the crowd. “This was my home, too. I worked hard just as hard as all of you to build it. I believed in every brick, every beam, every bit of drywall, every brush of paint. But when the roof started to cave in and I lay my body over her to protect her from the falling debris, you went to dinner. I lie awake at night and wonder if Christ came in here bearing the weight of his cross, would you help Him carry it? Would you help Him up off the cold floor and tend to His fractured body? Or would you walk away and believing it someone else’s responsibly to help? I guess only one of us will ever know the answer to a lot of questions.”

She turns on her heels and steps out into the cold; the frigid air takes her breath away for a split second. Almost instinctively her hand reaches deep into her pocket and pulls to the surface the long, forgotten pack of smokes. A little deeper reach divulges a box of matches. As she presses her finger to the tip of the match and draws it along the striking strip along the box. A quick flash of light followed by the faint stench of sulfur feels her nose. Just like riding a bike the memory of bringing the cigarette to parted lips as the flame and tobacco unite is just like it was yesterday. As the smoke fills her lungs, she exhales with a small cough. She dips her nose down into the warmth of her scarf, drops the cigarette on the ground. Crushes it out as if she is extinguishing all the hurt in her splintered heart and with all the pieces of her that remain, she smiles and walks away because sometimes winning looks an awful lot quitting….