Monday, May 28, 2012

This is the toughest thing about giving blood

I'm a platelet donor, which leaves me in demand. But the reason I don't give as often as I could isn't the time it takes, or the needle. It's because holding a book is nearly impossible.

I was turned on to this site by Kwizgiver.


This week's challenge: Using between 33 and 333 words, write a response including the third definition of the word:
DECAY (intransitive verb)

Because brevity is such a tough nut for me to crack, I'm working to respond to the prompt in exactly 33 words.

Every day I turn to Neutrogena, Aveeno, Clinique and The Body Shop. I cleanse, exfoliate and moisturize with serums, scrubs and lotions. Still I decay. It would be cheaper to accept the inevitable.

The Wall of Photos

I am trying so hard, you know? I want to get along with my mother because I love her, because she is the way she is, and because at this point in our lives, she is not going to change. And maybe she isn't even supposed to change. I keep returning to that verse from Isaiah and that televised ministry I saw a couple weeks ago:

"It’s easy to focus on others’ faults and what we would like to change about them. But, God is the one that put the talents, creativity and strengths into each person.  Isaiah 64:8 says, 'We’re the clay and you’re our potter: all of us are what you made us.' Our job isn’t to change people. Learn to accept that God is the one directing their steps, making them and molding them into who He wants them to be. If you’ll learn to love, honor and accept people for who they are right now, your relationships will go to a whole new level."

Yesterday I went to see her, to play with my nephew, which I frequently do on Sundays. She was so happy to see me, enjoyed how he and I make one another laugh. She hugged me a lot and wanted me to stay longer. All that is good, right?

Well, except for her new Wall of Photos. A Mother's Day gift to her from my kid sister (who certainly knows our family history).  We're talking at least 10 feet of family pictures. There is only one of me. There is a black-and-white studio portrait of my molester.

My mother is so very proud of this wall and wanted me to see it.

She's not mean, she's not trying to make me feel bad. She loves me as much as she is able.

She just completely doesn't get me.

This leaves me so sad.