google image, 2016

google image, 2016

I stop cooking thyme into my scrambled eggs.
My husband hates the aromatic plant.
He says it gives the eggs a weird, earthy,
groundish sort of taste. He is so much of my joy, I oblige.

I heard a story of an older man who wanted a baby with his younger wife.
After trying for years, he suggested they see a doctor – she declined.
She believed that babies should happen naturally.
Over time they grew apart; he wanting kids, she unwilling.

They later divorced.

I guess that is what love is, what it requires of you.
If you love someone: you try for them, you sacrifice for them,
you go without for them, and sometimes love requires you to visit
a doctor for them.

In my case, love means I go without thyme in my eggs. 


Short Story: The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Photo Credit

Photo Credit

Location: Restaurant, Texas 

She looks around trying to remember why she gave up her life for marriage and a child. Her young daughter coughs and screams throughout the restaurant and the mothers subtle reminder to cover her mouth goes unheard.

Two younger women chat in the corner next to a window about life and exam scores for college acceptance. The woman with the young child looks on with a regretful gaze.

She whispers to herself, "why ever did I decide to get married?" 

She plays with her wedding ring as if to remind herself that she had someone. She was not like those young girls because she had someone to love and care for her. 

"Life is better this way", she whispered. 

 "They will grow lonely and old, with beauty fading, and their stories outdated."

The little girl continued to cough up her lungs without her hands placed firmly over her mouth. \\