Letting go

My son just had a birthday.
Seventeen years old. Almost a grown man. Six foot five and handsome. He has a girlfriend now. They’re serious for a couple that have been together for only six months and it’s almost sickening yet cute at the same time how they coo and ahh at each other, calling one another sweet heart and baby.
What a minute! Baby? I growl softly deep inside, feeling my stomach twist and turn and realize, ‘Argh…I have to let go’.
It’s just not fair! I mean, for seventeen years he’s been my baby (never mind the eye rolls he gives me when I say that) and before that for nine months I carried him. I fed him, cuddled him, cleaned up after him and kissed his boo boos when he was hurt and this is how he repays me? Gets a girlfriend and spends all his time with her? Transfers all the adoration he felt toward me to another?
Let go.
I remember the first time I held him, looked into his perfect face and brushed my fingers through his dark curls. The way his eyes searched for me and the smile that curled his toothless mouth when he discovered me watching him in turn. The trust and love, knowing I’ll always be there no matter what. My heart fair swelled to bursting. This was my child, my son.
Let go.
As a toddler he followed me everywhere, always inquisitive and questioning. He loved everything about life; running, playing, eating, experiencing . I remember so clearly being at a fruit stand and glancing over to see a small hand reach up into a bin before snatching something only to replace it a moment later. When I went to investigate I discovered a row full of fruit bins, each filled with different delicacies, and each with one fruit that had a toddler sized bite taken out of it.
Let go.
I cried the first time he went away to camp. My husband would sigh and shake his head before patting me on the head. “He’ll be back.” “Yes I know.” Soon school came and I could feel him pulling away. Friends, activities, life in general. But he always came back, always with a smile and a hug. “I love you, mom.”
Let go.
I tried to teach him right as he grew; how to respect a woman, to treat her as a lady. To honor his elders, love his family and the Lord. He created his own set of personal morals and follows them rigidly. He is growing into a man, a man I helped shaped and one any mother can be proud of. Any parent. In order to be that man he needs to be, he has to do it on his own and that means stepping back.
As hard as it is, I’m letting go.
(dedicated to mothers everywhere)

I have a secret

I have a secret.
It’s not mind boggling or whisper worthy but to me its something that is mine…a secret fantasy, or others might call it, an alter ego. You see, I’m an a kick ass beautiful assassin who men lust over and fear. I walk the streets with confidence, meeting the eyes of passerbys with a haughty smirk, knowing that if I wished I could easily remove them from this world with none knowing the better.
I’m also a top notch thief, able to get past the most advanced security systems without breaking a sweat. I glide by in the night, walking through your dreams to get to what I want, your most prized possession. Whether its to distract you with a bat of my lashes as I pick your pocket or etching through a glass window at twenty stories up to cross a room filled with electronic sensors, nothing will stop me from my goal.
Some days I’m dark and gorgeous, deep inside blood thirsty and empty of human emotion. Once I was living but now I’m not. Years ago I died at the hands of a stranger only to be reborn into something stronger, faster, deadlier, for I am vampire, a creature of the night damned for all enternity to live as civilation around me blossoms and dies.
The imagination of a writer is something different, something special, for it is we who create new worlds, create new life and bring to others these vivid scenes of wonder. For most of us life is a dream, we think them, sleep them, find ourself obessed with them and in the end, if we’re lucky, we can manage to jot down our thoughts to share with others.
For me one side effect of this passion is that I am unable to turn it off. It travels with me everywhere I go; at the store, in school, walking down the street, even on the bus. It robs me of my sleep, occupies my every thoughts, and distracts me during conversations. I’m sure people that pass me in public wonder as to my nature. At times I speak out loud, working out a scene for my next chapter. At other times I become so obessessed that any disruption becomes an irritatent, locking myself away from everyone until my character’s stories are put to paper.
And when it finally does, when the story is complete I can sit back and sigh, relax until the next character steps forward to claim my attention, to drawn me into obession once again and we begin another dance of words.
For you see, I have a secret.