Is awkward silence the product of two incompatible people? I really hope so. But then again he’s so darn cute, I almost don’t.

But if not that means that it is the fault of one person or the other that the room is so deafeningly quiet. That means it could quite possibly be my fault that he and I are sitting in a silence that is so tangible it feels like peanut butter.

Should I say something about peanut butter...

Or maybe about how cold I am, or how hungry I am, or how the weather really doesn’t know what it wants to do, or maybe just how darn tired I am...

Am I boring? God I’m boring. I wish I had my phone, then at least I could act like the silence isn’t bothering me.

Quick say something witty... that’s a funny word... w-i-t-t-y

If I say that out loud is that just quirky enough to be interesting? It could be a funny start to a wonderful relationship. We could tell our kids one day, “I was sitting there, twiddling my thumbs hoping your father would say something but instead we sat soundlessly next to each other, and while I was thinking about how to break the ice with some wonderfully witty joke I started thinking aloud how fun the word witty was. It made your father laugh because...”

“I thought it was just the strangest, most random observation. But if I’m being honest she’s not wrong, it really is an interesting word,” he would say in the voice I had not yet heard him use.

“God it’s cold in here.”

Oh fuck he scared me. His voice isn’t at all how I imagined it. It is deeper with the occasional crack. His mouth moves a little different too. When he speaks, the words seem to tumble out of only the right side of his lips. Like the left side of his mouth had been glued shut. Maybe he had had a stroke. Or an injury. Or it was the result of a cleft lip surgery. Or he thought it was suave and charming to use only the right side of his mouth. It gives him a kind of mumble that I hadn’t expected.

Oh fuck, I never responded.

“Yeah this weather really doesn’t know what it wants to do.”

Home smells like the people I love.

Home smells like sweet and tangy cigarette smoke. The smell that filled the rooms of my aunt’s Victorian home.

Home smells like Colombian coffee with a splash of milk and exactly two Sweet N’ Low sugars. The cup of joe my dad had every morning.

Home smells like Lemon flavored Snapple tea and Noxema face lotion. The two scents that meant my mom had just finished a long day of housework and was relaxing in the living room.

Home smells like Vanilla Bean Noel Bath and Body Works spray. The body spray my sister doused herself in everyday before work.

Home smells like Polo aftershave and too much axe body spray. The ones from the Christmas gift sets that fueled my brother’s hygiene routine.

Home smells like baby Desitin and spilled grape juice. The smells that constantly filled the house when my niece came to visit.

Home is not the glade scents used to mask the odor of the people in it. Home is the scent that evokes a memory years later and leaves a smile dancing on my lips. Home is being able to tell who is going to turn the corner based on the scent that precedes the person.

I can only hope that my scent defines someone else’s home, hopefully for the people that define home for me.

It was an accident. Coming here today. An accident, and a mistake. I thought if I came and apoligized for what I did... I don't know what I thought acctually. Please excuse me, I have to go... what was I going to apologize for? Um, well, I was going to apologize for never saying the right things at the right times. Like right now. What I need to say is I'm sorry and I love you. But I'll never know if this is the right time, whether there would have been a more optimal time for you to hear those things than at your own engagement party. Probably... well congratulations, I'll show myself out, I know the way. See? Always saying the wrong thing, please don't cry. Now I have something else to apologize for, I guess sorry is becoming kinda cliche, huh. Well I'm sorry for never showing you how much I loved you when I had the chance, I'm sorry for ending things between us, I'm sorry for being a toxic son of a bitch, and I'm sorry for coming here today and ruining the celebration just to leave with my tail between my legs and you more confused than ever. I'm sorry. Goodbye.

Deep in an icy forest,

A fire pit was made.

Rocks and branches were placed,

And finally long sought dry leaves were laid.

A match is struck

And careless sparks flung.

The fire is burning bright.

The unstable fire is strong.

The fire rages in an unkind way

And soon the flame begins to flicker.

It is stoked occasionally,

But it remains uncertain and fickle.

Not even kindling can keep it going,

Soon it sputters, sputter, putter,

The ashes are left, and the rocks abandoned to cool,

It is finally extinguished, without a mutter.

Where those ashes lay in a disgraced pile,

A garden begins to flourish.

And after quite a while,

A natural forest fire occurs.

The rocks are once again set aflame,

And rages without control.

And if you stand at the edge of that once cold forest,

You can still hear that passionate fire roll.

he said i love you

and my heart faltered

not because of what he said

but because it was the first time he had ever lied to me

i knew it wasn't real

knew it wasn't true

it wasn't smart

but i said it back

it seemed fitting

like an eye for an eye

a lie for a lie

but that didn't make it right

i don't know if he really believed it

i don't know if i really meant it

or not

but meaning and believing doesn't make it true

good intentions don't mean good outcomes

good intentions don't mean telling the truth

he and i were in over our heads

but we were so scared to lose what we had

change isnt always bad

not even the majority of the time

it's always scary though

but when fear subsides different can be good

he and i didn't know that then

different was just scary

and same was safe

but same isn't always good

same can be suffocating

can be limiting

boring

but same is safe and securty is good, i guess

i love you became a habit

something said at predictable times

something constantly heard

but never felt

She twitches. Just slightly, with her left cheek, almost imperceptible, except by a trained eye that is used to identifying anxiety. I see it right away. The questions seem to be too much for her. Her voice is high and strained. It is clear that the lights in the room are too bright and that they make her uncomfortable. Her palms leave sweat marks on the armrests of her chair, so either she is nervous or she has not gotten used to the temperature of the room.

I guess the rumor in the waiting room was true: today was her first day working in her own practice. But I like her, I think we have a lot in common.

To be pregnant. To know that something...someone is growing inside of you. Invading you? Maybe that is not the right word. But that is how it feels. Or would feel, technically speaking. To be a mother is different than being an aunt. Being an aunt is fun because the moment things become too much to handle, it can be over. The child can be given back to its mother. But to be the mother. Now that is a whole other job. A scary, stressful, and rewarding job that can only be appreciated when it is experienced. Or at least that is what every mom says.