That, frankly, will not fly...

You are here to share to share the highest highs...and lowest lows.



When the going gets tough...We lash out in self defense. Things are lost in translation, and we're left confused...or are we? Maybe we're right in our initial assumption. After all, we're told to trust our gut. Our initial reaction to something. Maybe it is too much to expect the world to be created in 7 literal days. So if you can't rely on simple, unadulterated faith in something...and all you have is your primal instincts screaming the way it would watching something burning to the ground...

What is there left to do but to shut your eyes tight, grip your pillow...and wait for the world to stop spinning? Hope you don't die in the process?

Everything does look perfect, from far away.

Love Grows

"Love isn't always there. Love isn't born, it grows."

I remember the slight hurt and shock I felt when I heard mom say those words to me when I was 10. She had been talking about how stubborn she was when she was engaged to dad. That he annoyed her with his persistence, and his being 4 years younger than her. I cringed further when she stated she had accepted dad's engagement ring because she felt pity for him...because it was the right thing to do. Shortly thereafter, during a small argument about dad not having enough money to buy her an ice cream cone, she had returned the ring to him...leaving him devastated in the driveway of the old house.

That night, my grandmother had given my mom a stern talking and shout fest. Told mom that the world didn't revolve around her pride and capricious ways. That she had to grow up and do the right thing...stop toying with a man's emotions. To pick...once and for all...all in or all out. Mom went to my dad the next day and felt bad that he was so broken so she asked for the ring back. Dad was beyond happy...time moved forward and they got married. Mom says no sex was had during the honeymoon, and even after that it was sporadic. She didn't feel any attraction to him, just fondness. Years went by. I was born. I remember them always holding hands everywhere...dad worshiped the ground mom stood, pretty much. I remember her devoting herself to me and doing a lot of the silent treatment to him.

When I was 12, Grandma died (Mom's mom) and things got strained between my folks. A few years later, when I was 16/17, Dad left us. Mom was mess. At first I blamed her, for being cold to him...for being, in nice words, a real bitch. I thought she got what she deserved. To be alone and miserable and forgotten. But...then I thought of that conversation. Of how she hadn't even married him out of love, just duty. So I asked her...why did she care now? She simply said "I grew to love him. To need him. To consider him my best friend, my partner and my prince charming. I grew to trust he would be there until we would die. Yari, I got on my knees and begged him to stay, the last night he was here. ME. On my KNEES." I just looked away and said "We're better off, Mom".

That picture up there is one of my favorite picture of my parents. I don't know when it was taken...but they look happy. Both of them. Care free. Somewhere between no love to heart breaking divorce, that picture was taken. Oddly enough...that's how they look now. That happy.

Was all the other bullshit necessary, to find happily ever after?

Wynken, Blynken and Nod...

I was living in Pennsylvania again. In the little row home on Oak Street…where the melting pot of the Caribbean took place in Allentown.

I had three sons, who were not home yet at 7 p.m. and I was worried. So I zipped up my heavy coat and headed out into the snow covered alleys to look for them. For some reason I had a picture of them in my pocket, already sensing something had gone wrong with them. Three olive skinned boys, all with olive skin and big brown eyes rimmed with dark lashes. Their heads a mess of soft, loose curls and their smiles all accentuated with deep dimples on their cheeks. I teared up looking at the picture and my chest tightened up. The oldest looked about 13, the middle one looked 11 and the little one looked to be 8. Where was he? Why wasn’t he out here looking for our sons in the snow? I checked my cell phone and no texts or calls. He didn’t even notice I left the house to look for them.

I heard kids yelling out in the distance, and then two gunshots. Silence. I ran and kept falling face first in the snow, and I screamed out “Abdiel!” No answer. My eldest wasn’t answering. I finally reached the alley and simply saw two bodies laying in the cold, a few feet from each other and their blood staining the snow covered pavement. I screamed. I knew. I was late. I saw Abdiel running away from me, even though he heard my cries and screams. My pleas for him to stop. Another teen was trying to hold me up as I walked to the bodies of my younger sons. He kept rushing me with the story, how some of their friends were playing with a gun and accidentally shot my sons. That his friend didn’t mean to do harm…that he would call an ambulance and be right back. I sank to my knees between their bodies, my eyes darting from one face to the other, looking for life. I kept mumbling, and half screaming “Xavi, talk to me, papi, please open your eyes. Mi amor please, wake up, bebe” to my youngest, his mouth and face covered in blood, his curls matted with it. Nothing. My middle one was on his stomach, his backpack crushing him and blood pouring from his chest under him. I shook him, “Jay, please papito talk to mami, breathe mi angel. Dios mio por favor, baby just open your eyes”.

I knew where my oldest son was going, and I kept calling my husband’s name asking him to run and stop him. I left him voicemails, he wouldn’t answer the phone. I texted him. No reply. I just kept thinking, my only one left is going to find those other boys. They’ll shoot him too. So I started running down the street and around the corner where I saw him go. I kept turning corners and coming upon empty streets as the snow piles grew heavier. I finally reached the street where he was, and saw him throwing himself with a knife into the middle of a group of older boys. I screamed his name again, to stop…But all I had left after a few steps was my 13 year old, on his knees with the blade in his stomach. Looking up at me crying and unable to talk, lip quivering. I felt the world go black as he gasped out “Mom…”

I was in the middle of English class, and I was 15 again. The classroom was dim and I could feel the rain beating the roof hard. Muggy afternoon in Puerto Rico. My English teacher, Mrs. Rios, asked me to come to the front of the class. I tried to get up, but my knee wouldn’t bend. My left knee was stiff and hurt like it was burning up from the inside out. I kept trying to get up but had no strength, so I kept wobbling back to my seat in pain. I finally was able to get up, and my best friend Arelys was carrying me from one arm…and David from the other. I told them “I’ve missed you guys so much. We haven’t seen each other in years. You were always my best friends.” Arelys said “Of course I’m here for you, mama. Thinks with me are always the same”…David leaned over and kissed my cheek, whispered “Te quiero, mi negra”. I was so happy I had my two best friends from 1^st grade back that I forgot the pain, but I realized I was walking on a slushy surface. I looked down and the floor was a giant pancake covered in slippery syrup. I laughed as Mrs. Rios started screaming in Spanish “Oh my God, the floors are pancakes. Everyone pick it up before the syrup runs through the floor and it makes a hole!”

But I saw myself sink, almost like in quicksand, up to my neck in the middle of the pancake. Except now it wasn’t a pancake. It was soggy wood that had scratched my body all the way to sticking into my neck, almost severing my head off. I looked around me at everyone’s horrified face…probably because my head had detached completely and now lay in a pool of blood. I felt my lips getting cold, and the last thing I saw was a stray dog, sitting at the corner of the classroom…that now looked like a porch. It stared at me, licking its nose.

I don’t even know what to think anymore.

New Ink, New Tune

So, I got my first tattoo. Today. In Alpine, TX.

I've been wanting one for a while...never could decide what I wanted...or if I was brave enough to carry it.

This weekend I went to see the Railroad Revival Tour: Mumford & Sons, Old Crow Medicine Show and Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros. It awoke something in me, along with a good person I have in my life and the overall experience helped me realize the answer to my tattoo was simple: Music. There you have it. A bass clef and two notes.

Tonight, also, I wrote a new song. I haven't written one in a while...but the words just came out at the moment...so why not?

Here's the link to the mp3:

http://kiwi6.com/file/c6n217gw6a

Lyrics to "The Night Was Ours":

We walk the streets,
our arms entwined like drunken snakes.
Beneath our feet,
the path just winds to the unknown.

Past boarded doors,
and dusty windows with "For Sale"
Down corridors,
our breaths now hike. our voices meek.

Speed up, my dear,
the dawn is breaking, we're headed home.

This night belonged
to words you mumbled on my mouth
To that old song
that flowed between us with the wine.

This night was bred
by secret dances on a bus
our lips are red
from kissing slowly all along...

Keep up, my love,
the sun is chasing us towards home...

And when we wake
Don't be surprised if it's all gone.
The love was made,
The time now came to be alone.

And when you wake,
Don't cry a tear if I'm not there.
The dreams we made,
Will still be tangled in your hair.

Go sleep my dear, we made it home.

(Copyright Yaritza Carrillo 2011)

I Was Cool

Before I began my obsession with my now favorite baseball player, Chipper Jones, in the mid 90's...there was my first favorite baseball player. Ken Griffey Jr.

He was everywhere. In his Mariners uniform. Adonis in the flesh. But he's not the focus of my post...he's merely the reason. The muse. The backbone.

I was 10 years old when I was awarded a 'back to school' scholarship that was available to low income, public school students in Puerto Rico. You were awarded $300 for all your school supplies and uniforms. More importantly, this was the first time I was allowed to get whatever I wanted, to make my own decisions with MY money, as long as it was for school (and that it wasn't a pony to ride to said school...it was Puerto Rico. The ponies weren't that odd of a thing).

Ten year old Yari was a straight A student, with big glasses and one friend. I had gum spit at my hair on a weekly basis. I was tripped daily either at the lunch line or on my way to my seat in class...or both places, on good days. If any of the popular, troublesome kids ever talked to me...it was to get their homework done by me or to copy off my exam. I didn't get invited to parties. I didn't have a Walkman, much less a fancy CD player. I didn't have money to buy cds...or even a radio that would play them at home. I simply had a small boom box, with fake plastic chrome in which I would record songs I liked off the radio stations and make my own mixed tapes. I had no t.v. in my room, and I was the proud owner of a 9 year old Original NES console, handed down to me after being beat to a faded pulp by my 6 older cousins. I wore sneakers from Payless or Kmart and my school back packs (and lunch boxes) were also hand me down ones from my cousins. Broken, dirty and not in any way girly.

That being said, and forever embedded in your mind, I will start by saying that the check died within 3 hours of being in my hands. My parents went to the bank with me, to the place I had a savings account under my name with a whopping $10 in it. I cashed the check and put it in my 'wallet'...or shall I say $1.00 plastic wallet from a nearby dollar store. I had a mission. I had a purpose. I did not deviate.

I walked into the nearest Foot Locker, almost in an overwhelming state of smugness. I could already hear my dad warning me to not do what he thought I was about to do. It was my money. I needed shoes for school. Ken Griffey Jr had released his new sneakers two weeks ago. Green and black Nike shoes, with a white sole and black laces. They had air bubbles in the heel. Air bubbles with green rubber inside. They were beautiful. Everyone in school had them. At least everyone that mattered. All the cool guys who stood up to teachers and got into fights, gaining everyone's respect and admiration. All the rich guys who wore designer jeans and had dads that dropped them off in new cars. I would be like them. Surely the shoes would make me like them...

I went to the back of the store and didn't see them anywhere, feeling my heart race at the possibility of being too late to the party. An associate walks towards me, and looks down at me with a forced smile. I just mumble "Ken Griffey?", and he takes me to the end of the wall where they have just brought in the same model sneakers but in new colors. Black and red, with the white Nike swish. $185.00. I asked for a size 8.5 and didn't even bother trying them on. My dad was already arguing with me, calling me insane for spending more than half my money on shoes. I paid, grabbed the rope on my black and white bag and walked out of the store feeling like I was worth a million dollars. Like I had been given a second chance at life. Like school couldn't come up the next day soon enough. I then went and bought 3 new baby blue polos for my uniforms, a Hurley backpack, a Nike Trapper Keeper and bought my mom, dad and aunt a slice of pizza.

The next day, I didn't let my dad drop me off three blocks away out of fear of his beat up Oldsmobile breaking down in front of my school and humiliating me forever. No. I was dropped off in front of the main gates, and I slid out coolly from the front seat, ignoring the creaking noises the car's door made as I swung it closed. I made it three steps into the school yard before being rushed by everyone. Every. Single. Kid in my grade made a circle around me, knelt down to look at my shoes (even though they had the same ones that were merely 2 weeks old). Where did I find them? Oh the mall. How did I get those colors? Oh they just brought them in. Did I just buy them yesterday? Yeah, with my own money. Oh do I have the newest Hurley backpack too? And a Nike Trapper Keeper? Yeah, I bought those too. Will I sit with you at lunch? Will I play basketball with you at recess? Sure! And so, I was escorted to our classroom for the next week, and was the coolest girl they knew...

Then, the following Monday, the new AIR Jordan's came out.

My Trapper Keeper wouldn't close right, and it would keep snapping on the fleshy part of my thumb. Someone had spit a piece of gum into my Hurley backpack. I walked the three blocks from where dad dropped me off, and no one said hi or knew I existed. As I looked down at my Ken Griffey Jr. shoes on the way up the stairs, I saw a black smudge on the white part, and a white scratch on the black part...and just like that, I was me again. I was the same Yari, with outdated $185.00 sneakers.

I have never been able to splurge like that again...to waste my money away on petty, popular things without sacrificing the responsible things like bills, rent...etc. But I am happy with what I do have. Because nowadays, I buy things for me. Because I like them. Wether they're the latest or the coolest, it bothers me not. No one can keep up with the latest trends. That's all they are: trends. Why should I bother spending money I don't have, buying things I don't need in order to impress people that aren't worth it?

Sure, it was 17 years ago. Sure, it was only for a week. Sure, I spent my money stupidly...but for one whole week:

I. Was. Cool.

Fortune Teller

I was sitting on a boulder, overlooking a valley at sundown. It looked like it could've been Los Angeles...or maybe it was some small city nestled in the desert. The lights from the light posts in all it's streets were coming on as darkness approached and the sky was painted in that range from burning orange where the sun is dying, to the navy blue where night began pushing out its stars.

You sat next to me, taking in the scene and occasionally looking over your shoulder to make sure we were still alone in this part of the woods...or maybe to make sure our old Shelby was still where we left it. I reached over and grabbed your hand, which was fidgeting nervously on your knee...like you were expecting for something to happen at any second. You turned to me started, and where I once saw warmth, love, life and mischievousness...now I only saw fear, pain, dull coldness and death. I smiled, trying to revive the part of you I lived for every day - yet, you simple gave me a blank, empty grin back. It made my chest ache. I looked away first.

"What do I do?", you asked and sighed. I dreaded answering. I dreaded seeing what your brown eyes would reply to my words.

"I don't know the future, bub. No matter what you pick, an element of your past life or what you think is happiness will be lost. Think what would make you content, at peace. That will then pour out into others in your life. You can't love others and make them happy if you don't love yourself and are happy with your life"...I spit out quickly, looking over at you and seeing your shoulders sag even more. You looked down at your Vans and I pulled you closer to me, and you softened up. I cried against your neck. I cried for you. For your confusion. For your loss. For your pain. For how helpless I felt at not being able to erase your woes for you. I cried for me. For all the things I wanted to say but couldn't. Because I'd have to stop hugging you at some point.

Then I opened my eyes and we were sitting on a pier, and it was daytime again. The ocean was crashing below us and jellyfish of all sorts of colors were floating up from the water and around us. You went to touch one, and I grabbed your hand.

"They sting. Don't touch them!", I said angrily...not really sure where the anger came from.

"They taste like beer. And I'm sad. I'll do whatever I want!", you yelled back and walked away from me. Then it started raining and I used my guitar as a boat, because the waters were rising quick. I yelled out your name, but couldn't see anything past a few feet in front of me...just gray water and rain splashing. I heard my cell phone ring, and when I answered it was my grandmother asking if I was coming over to eat or not. I was so taken aback by the sound of her voice, and by the fact that she was still alive that I couldn't answer. I just did that sort of laugh/cry thing one does when immensely relieved and happy, saying "Abuela" over and over.

Then it stopped raining..and you were there, with your Vans in your hand, drawing things on the sand with your big toe. I waddled over and walked out of the ocean, and you handed me your plaid shirt so I could warm up. You had doodled a heart with my name on it and a crab was messing up my name as it walked over it. I started crying because my name was ruined. You laughed and said I made you smile and simply walked over the heart. I seemed to be the only one upset over the tragedy of your doodle. I grabbed the crab and threw it in the water, saying "Cabrón!" and sniffling. You grabbed my hand and handed me a beer.

Then Rage Against the Machine's "Bombtrack" blared into my ear, and I found that your hand had turned into my pillow pet.

There...it all it's glory, was Tuesday morning. I want more dreams. I want more answers.

So I try to understand,

what I can't hold in my hand,

and whatever I find...

I'll find my way back to you.

And if you could try to find it too,

cause this place is overgrown with works in bloom...

"Home" is wherever we are

if there is love there too.

~Jack Johnson "Home"

Wisdom

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

What a crock of garbage.

Do you know why some people go through life with a seemingly perfect life? Because they're oblivious to their surroundings and to what life could possibly offer if they but strayed a little from their paved path.

Why does everyone have a yearning to be a child again? To go back to the care free days when your toughest decision was what cartoon to watch and if to have that 12th chocolate chip cookie. No thought of life, loss, love, heartaches, health, work, economy...future. No sitting there at night missing anything...because you don't know what missing is yet. You've never had it...why would you miss it?

Then you grow up and experience things. You decide one day you want to take chances, you want to think outside the box and take everything head on. In the end, you find yourself with two life lessons: You learned something new about yourself and now you have something else to trouble your thoughts. You were content before...now you're miserable because you had a taste of something you can never have again. You spend the rest of your life wondering if you can have it again, if you need it, why did you do it...so much for peace.

Mr. Tennyson you were drunk or high when you wrote that. I rather never feel the pain of loss, the void, the bleak hopeless darkness than have 10 seconds of wonderful, lose it, then spend the rest of my life with memories of what was.

Crabby: Read and Act Accordingly

While speaking with a friend of mine today, he was explaining to me how he was a typical Aries sign as if somehow that explained how he is (which is confusing and mysterious and a puzzle and ever amusing). Right. Anyway, I realized I've never really payed attention to astrology stuff, aside from knowing I'm a Cancer and that I love to eat crab. I mean, my sign is a crab.

So, upon a more detailed examination of my Zodiac sign (Or reading the first Google link for 5 minutes), it turns out that I am pretty much every single thing a Cancer should be.

Read. Digest. Act accordingly and be nice to me, I'm a crab:

Element: Water

Ruler: Moon

Metal: Silver

Anatomy: Breasts (rawr)

Main Traits: Gentle, conservative, feeling, nurturing, defensive, contemplative

Description 1:

A crab is able to walk or run sideways. Similarly, Cancer natives can sometimes "move about" in life, in a figurative sense, in an indirect manner. The crab's body is covered by a carapace (shell). Cancer natives are self-protective and sensitive, and often retreat into themselves when hurt. Crabs are able to resist changes in the environment, thereby protecting themselves from hostile elements in various habitats. Similarly, Cancer natives are thought to avoid too much change, and to be on the defensive.

Cancer (me):

Moon in Cancer natives have a large potential to be able to get in touch with the feelings and moods of others.

Their memories of the past are outstanding, especially for all things emotional.

Cancer people are never detached—they cling to things, their home, and people they care for. They seek out security and familiarity in all they do. They look for peace and quiet. Their attachment to all that is safe means they are a little leery of change.

These peace-loving souls dislike superficiality in all of its forms. They are devoted and accommodating.

Because of their strong attachment to, and memory of, the past, Cancer natives tend to whip a dead horse. They may dwell on hurts long after everyone else has moved on.

When they feel they have been taken for granted (which may be often!), they don't always confront others directly. This is when they can use roundabout ways to get your attention.

One of the most delightful characteristics of Cancer people is their loony sense of humor. These people can be extraordinarily funny. Their moodiness can baffle others, but their unique outlook on life is something most people can appreciate.

When treated with tenderness and understanding, Cancer natives return the favor with warmth and protection. Give them security, and you'll take the crabbiness out of the Crab, at least for awhile.

These people are wonderfully dependable overall, despite their occasional mood swings. Make a friend of a Cancer, and you will be taken care of for life.

These people come across as gentle creatures. There's something familiar about them — they're the guy or gal next door. When they enter a room, they don't walk in with a splash. Instead, they move to the sides and weave their way inwards. These people have a familiar feel to them. Because they are rather sensitive to their environment, they can get flustered easily, especially in public.

Their first instinct, when threatened or on unfamiliar ground, is to protect themselves. When new situations present themselves, they can immediately withdraw or act shy.

Cancer people are looking for structure and security in their partner and their relationship. These people function best when their partner displays strength, financial and emotional stability, and know-how.

These people seem to resist change and to shy away from direct confrontations.

Their motto is "The best offence is defense".

Their sex drive can be very tied up with emotional need. At their best, they turn others on with a protective, almost therapeutic way about them.

These people are threatened by indifference. They can be argumentative.They have defensive reactions and bursts of emotional displays when they feel cornered.

With reassurance and confidence, these natives are protective, helpful, and dependable in the long haul. They prefer to handle situations peacefully and humanely.

Cancer men and women show their love by caring for you. They pay more attention to your feelings than your words, and observe you rather carefully.

These lovers are always worried they'll be left high and dry. If you've hurt them, they'll have a hard time forgetting. Every so often, they'll retreat into themselves (not unlike a Crab), and it can be difficult to pull them out. This is when they use their extraordinary "nursing" abilities on themselves, instead of you...

Recognize their attachments to their family and home. Help them to feel confident with you—when they are fearful of being rejected.

Well...then...who's still around? Lulz.

Tracking Ghosts

You ask me if I remember

My head simply tilts

How does one forget,

when a dream was built?

You run against the wall

I flinch and look away

Am I your savior? Or ruin?

Let me carry your weight.

I cannot speak your code,

Just sit and wait confused.

There's 30 shades of wonderful

and all of them are you.

You have no asked for it,

so I will keep it locked.

A heart is not what's needed,

I will remain your rock.

Grab my hand...

Don't say anything.

Pearls

I sat in front of her, with my feet safely tucked under me, and watched her for the longest time without saying a word.

Her hands moved rhythmically and meticulously over the pattern on a white pillowcase, threading the needle tightly into an intricate pattern I could only hope to mimic one day. Some day, on a Sunday, when I were old and tired, I would also sit on my second story balcony in the afternoon sun and let the warm island breeze run through my hair as I embroidered my day away. I would let my glasses rest on the tip of my nose, and every now and then hum a song from years ago, sighing exasperated whenever I cross stitched the wrong line. I would rest my eyes by staring quietly at the houses in the small valley below me...the same one where generations before me worked the land and built their homes and where the new generation, my grandchildren, are now running through the tall grass chasing fireflies. And some day, a long long time from now, a tiny squeaky voice would break my inner thoughts...

"Nana?", I asked.

"Hmmm?", she'd mumble back, as her hands went back to work on her embroidery, not even bothering to look up at me.

"Why do you have so many colors of thread, but always do your flowers in red and pink?"

"Because I like red and pink flowers", she whispered lazily.

"I like orange flowers, Nana. Do you have orange?", I asked as I tipped my chair back and leaned it against the wall, grazing my toes on the balcony beams.

"Yes. But you can make your flowers orange when you learn to do this. I like mine like this", she bit at the remaining piece of string after she had secured the knot. Tucking her hair behind her ear, and gnawing her lip a bit, she looked inside her fabric and string box for something.

"Nana, what were you humming?", I leaned my chair further back, balancing on it's hind legs.

"Just a song. Stop leaning on the chair, you're going to fall", she said finally looking over at me, but not really seeing me.

"What's the song about? The sun?", I said - ignoring her request and now rocking the chair back and forth, hitting the back of it softly against the wall and staring at the sun beginning to make it's way down the sky.

"No. About a boy who used to sing to a girl he was in love with. Stop rocking the chair, you're going to fall", she said a bit more sternly and started to embroider the leaves for her flowers in a bright green.

"Why did he stop singing, Nana? No I'm not." I swayed my legs wildly as I felt the chair wobble, giggling.

"Because her dad didn't want them to be in love, so he lied to his daughter and told her the boy didn't love her anymore. She drank poison and died. The boy didn't sing again. Stop it with the chair, Prieta. You're gonna fall and hurt yourself!", she snapped slightly at me.

"Nana, why do you sing sad songs? Sing happy songs. About the sun and kissing!", I said loudly as I pushed my chair back strongly, with both feet planted on the balcony beam. Immediately I felt a snap in the plastic material and the chair give way under me, making me fall backwards and bumping my head on the floor.

She looked over at me as I started to tear up and was rubbing the back of my head. It burned and the wait for her to scream out her long stream of curse words and 'I told you so' was grueling. But, after a few seconds she pushed her glasses back down to the tip of her nose and said "Because I like sad songs and when you grow up, you will too...go get another chair".

I quickly went to the opposite end of the balcony and dragged a metal chair this time, and started leaning back on it as she resumed her humming.

"Nana..." I started.

"You're going to fall again", she said as she stared at the cars making their way up and down our corner of the mountains.

I let my chair fall forward and sat up straight. I stared a the cars for a few minutes with her in silence before I resumed, "...can we do orange flowers now?"

She looked over and pulled me on her lap, kissing the bump on the back of my head before combing my hair with her fingertips and pulling it back up in a tidier pony tail again.

She put the new pillowcase on my lap and spread it neatly, before handing me a needle with bright orange thread.

"Yes, you can do it. I only like pink and red."