Words, No words

 I have so much to say that I have nothing to say.

So many words that I have no words. 

Nothing left to be said.

A

A song triggers a memory

"It matters how this ends. What if I never love again?"

Adele

We drunkenly climbed the stairs. Having spent the better part of a cold night in an underground martini bar in Cherry Creek. Me, drinking Apple Martinis; you, drinking a little bit of everything. We talked all night. We laughed all night. I remember you slumping in the white vinyl booth in the corner; white booth, white hoodie. Relaxing like we were at your house or my house. It was late- we were amongst the last in the bar. The waiter indulgent but ready to go home. We got the check and left. Drunkenly climbing the wide stairs. 

It was cold. The kind of cold that only Colorado can manufacture. The sky pink in the middle of the night. The air so cold that it freezes your nose hairs upon inhalation.

"Fuck it's Cold!" you say, tugging up your hood. 

I have on a hip hugging jean skirt, long sleeved shirt, and faux fur vest turned inside out to warm me. I put my hands in my pockets and start to hustle. As we hit the top step the snow starts to drift lazily. Big fat crystal flakes. 

In the middle of the street. In the middle of Cherry Creek. In the middle of the night. There is... silence. I am in awe of the beauty of the moment. I am a little drunk and a lot in love. 

I stop to stamp the memory in my brain. I never want to forget. 

"Kiss me" I say.

You do not hesitate. You do not question. You simply turn and comply. Our bodies do not touch. Our hands do not move from our pockets. Just lips. You kiss me. Soft at first, then with tongue, then teeth. Nipping at my lower lip. I moan or groan, I am unsure which. You straighten. Shake your head a little.

"Lets go to my house" you don't utter it as a suggestion. Not a question. It was a command laced in a plea.

I nod once and move to get in the car.

I realize that all of the parts of me that were cold are warm. I marvel at the idea that a touching of my to your lips generates enough heat to warm my entire being. I re-stamp the memory and we drive off. 

A perfect memory crystalized in fire and ice. 

A

My Official Resignation from the Dating Game

To whom it may concern,

I tender this letter to officially resign my position as an active member of the dating game. I must confess my time with the company has been full of unexpected surprises and personal growth. I reflect fondly on the many projects that I have had the opportunity to work on while in this position; inclusive of both short term and long term commitments. Each one provided a springboard wherein I could continue to grow. 

It is with no small amount of warm regard that I find that my time to move on has come. At this point in my life I have had the opportunity to reevaluate my priorities and I find that I would like to dedicate more time to the emotional fulfillment of my soul. As a young woman the demands of 18 hour days and sleepless nights and sacrifices and uncomfortable shoes felt like a new and exciting challenge. It was a world of possibilities to be confronted and tamed. I currently find that those same challenges no longer appeal. Now my preference is to be at peace with the internal satisfaction of simple life and flip flops. 

I thank you for the time and belief in me as I have grown up in this company, however, my time here is complete. 

Kind regards,

Amy Dewberry

To: Amy Dewberry

Re: Resignation

Dear Ms. Dewberry,

The Dating Game rejects your resignation. Please check your phone for a meeting invitation and next steps. You will find that we have increased your salary and added stock options. Thank you for the information but we do not accept your resignation.

The Dating Game

Owning My Titles

Strong Independent Black Woman has always been a title that I have hated. Equally so with Queen. Anything that means that I have to take on an excess of burden that I did not choose by design seemed unfair.

It made it seem like I relish this role as one who keeps it together which is laughable at best. I much preferred the idea of being known as a princes. Someone for whom looking pretty was the sole obligation. One who could flit their life and troubles away on the dais of daydreams. That is what I wanted. 

Queens have too many decisions to make. Too much responsibility to bare, to many burdens to carry. Head up, back straight, never let them see you fall apart. I was actually given that advice once by an Aunt. My uncle had died and I was sitting in a chair crying my eyes out. My Aunt, carrying food to the kitchen, stopped- shook her head and said, "Nope, you don't fall apart in public. We fall apart at home. Fix your face and go help." 

Another older wise friend, at yet another funeral where I was crying like a baby over the death of a second mother, took my outside and said much the same, "The end is bad and it's going to be worse. You can't let every little thing tear you apart. Fix your face. Let's go back inside." 

Both of these women are black. Why is it that as Black women the idea of embracing emotions publicly is so offensive? Why is an unfixed face problematic? If I had to guess I would say it's been born of years of having to shut up and put up. To make do and make happen. Of being objectified and stereotyped while hated and vilified. You learn to be inoffensive and non-threatening. I guess there is nothing scarier than big emotions. 

But I feel big. I feel all of my feelings with every fiber of my being. And I like it. I like the Red hot anger that actually colors my vision in a haze, and the deep blue sorrows that feel like they will drown me. I like the crushing anxiety that makes me want to curl into a gray fuzzy ball and the joy that makes me feel like I can taste the color yellow. I love the laughter that makes me feel like it will float me away like a hot pink helium balloon. I am comfortable with the rainbow of my emotions and the swiftness of which they come and go. I like feeling alive. 

I have been doing this thing where I temper my temper to be a better person. I hate it. I am doing it because I moved to a place where the men act like girls and they have bigger feelings than I do. How TIRESOME!!! I am afraid I am going to create reverse dimples because of how often I have to bite my cheek to not say what I am thinking. Which is usually mostly- Shut the hell up and stop being a baby. 

I am reminded that I have known some really strong men. The kind whose strength super ceded mine and therefore could stomach a thorough cussing out from a Black Woman. I mean, they're just words- Suck it up Buttercup. 

The point is to fit in I find myself catering to Ego. Male ego, because they are so fragile here. Problematic because as much as I hate the title- I am no less a Boss and at this point this pussyfooting around is getting in my way. Men and their egos are getting my my way. 

.... But who's fault is that? I am not married. Not tied to anyone or anything. If my path is cluttered it's my own fault for allowing the debris. Another thing Strong Women do- they own their worlds and don't allocate the blame to anyone else. I should have never checked who I am to make it comfortable for them. That's their wives job. 

The storm clears. I smell the winds of change. They smell like a lifting of oppression. So yeah- move aside. 

I'm coming through.

Permission not needed.

A

Grown up decisions & How to dismantle a life

Most people spend most of their lives building a life. They construct it like a meticulously built house. Activity to memory. Hand to finger. Head to heart. They construct it to be disaster proof. They construct it to keep the warmth in, to keep the memories in, to keep the people in. They construct it so thoroughly, so tightly that the only thing that dissolves it is death. Ironically the painful burden of dismantling said life falls upon the ones that they want to harm the least but for whom it hurts the most. It is unfair really but that is the way of things. 

Not me. 

I would never do that to my kids. To begin with, I realize that I have raised some soft kids and they don't have the emotional fortitude that trashing a dead mother's belongings requires. And even if they did- they would do it wrong. I would rather tell my own stories and write my own endings. 

Ergo-

I build my life in 20 year increments.  0 - 20; 20 - 40; 40 - 60; 60 - 80; 80 -100. I like this habit about myself. This reemergence of self every few decades. Putting together. Taking apart. Putting together. Taking apart. A series with 5 distinct books. Each one good enough to be a stand alone movie. That's my life. A constant shifting. I love it. 

It is time to dismantle the 2nd book of my life. As with the first, I am not sad to see it go. I am ready for the next section. I do not mourn what was nor what was before. I just want to wrap it up, say a proper eulogy, kiss it goodbye, and walk away. I have-

Moved off the continent

Said goodbye to my book 2 boyfriends, husbands, and significant others

Written characters out of the story

Accomplished lots professionally, mentally, emotionally, financially, and personally

It all ends at the end. This book is coming to a close. 

What is next to conclude this conclusion?

Create a commemorative memory collection (aka photo album with narrations)

Sell the house- or not.

Change my number. 

Light the rest on fire. 

Walk into the sunset.

"the time has come, the walrus said...."

Dewberry

Don't forget you are a writer, Go Write

My phone chimes this alert every month on the last day of the month. 

Don't forget you are a writer, Go Write

Don't forget you are a writer, Go Write

I am late.

I would like to lie and say my words are twisted so tightly that I have nothing to say. That is not true. 

I would like to say that I can't write right now. The fact that I am writing right now proves that to be untrue.

What is true?

Perhaps this month I won't write for you. Perhaps I will write for me. I deeply believe that the leather bound, not the blog, is the medium of choice on this quiet Friday night. 

I will go write

but

not here.

Dewb 

On being a writer...

I believe in the preservation of things. Of memories, of pictures, of evidences of a life well lived. 

I started writing at 10. I have continued for over 30 years. I have won awards, rocked a mic, published in newspapers, published in poetry books, read for kids, written for friends, blogged; starting before it was cool. I have saved it all. I have saved all of my leather bounds and notepads and three ring binders. I am a keeper of memories. 

One day, when I am dead, someone will be tasked with going through my personal effects. They will not need to wonder what my life was like nor what I was thinking. It will be a great story and a full-on treasure hunt. 

I am not so arrogant as to believe that I made a huge impression on this blue globe; nor am I so ignorant as to think that nothing I have done has mattered. I found my place somewhere in that gentle sweet spot of a life well lived and perfect anonymity. 

I am in Colorado closing chapters and wrapping up memories. Not because I am dying but because I am getting ready to evolve.

I am molting.

And documenting as I go. 

It's great to be a writer. 

Dewb