Despair and Hope

First and foremost, this post is written with the permission of my daughter. Thank you, Taylor, for being brave enough to let me share your story.

It is Thanksgiving eve.  Tomorrow a good portion of our nation will feast on turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. Where we can, we will be gathering with family, friends, and neighbors to give thanks for our many blessings.  This year I am brought to my knees with gratitude that my family - my three kids, their father and myself - will be together. Eleven days ago we were nearly planning a funeral.

I had a day full of plans on November 15th.  A friend was soon to turn fifty. I was going to meet the girlfriends, road-trip to Bonneville Hot Springs for a celebratory lunch, indulge in soaks and wraps, then head back to Hood River for the birthday party. Most likely I wouldn't have been home till eleven pm.  I composed a quick text to my presumably sleeping seventeen year-old daughter - "Heading out. See you later tonight."  I was just about to hit send when something told me to go upstairs and say goodbye in person. I knocked on the door. No response. I heard a weird clattering noise that sounded like a manual typewriter. I knocked again. Still no response. So I opened the door. The noise I was hearing was the body of my precious baby seizing so violently the bed was rattling. She was completely unresponsive, choking and hypoxic. Holding her head in a position to maintain an open airway with one hand, my phone was, thank god, still in my other hand.  I dialed 911 and in no time Hood River's finest EMT's were on the scene. She was transported to the local emergency room, stabilized and the next day we transferred to Providence Portland Medical Center and the day after that transferred to the Adolescent Psychiatry in-patient unit at Providence Willamette Falls Medical Center.  Yes - the reality we had to face was that our daughter had attempted suicide. She took a nearly lethal dose of Benadryl. Cost: $1.97.  She spent a week receiving caring, skilled in-patient treatment in Oregon City. As a family we are circling the wagons and exploring how to ensure a healthy recovery . . . how to ensure this doesn't happen again.  There are many resources and we are committed. We are optimistic. We are lucky.

I write this because I don't believe we are the only ones. Not for a minute. If this can happen in our family it can happen to anyone.  Within days of our near miss another dear member of our community successfully hanged himself. The holidays are upon us.  Surrounded by friends and loved ones it can be a joyous time but it can also be the loneliest of times.

Please . . . in this season and beyond, listen to your hearts.  Let those you love know how much you care. Reach out if you sense someone is in trouble.  The briefest kindness may be the one thing that gives a struggling friend the moment or two to decide to stick around a little longer.  Know about our resources.  Click here for the local Hood River Suicide hotline.  Click here  for the Mid-Columbia Center for Living.

I'm sharing the poem I wrote the morning after.  It's personal and painful but I am sure it's not my story alone.  Talk about this stuff - let's get it out from under the carpet.

Much love to you all.

Despair and Hope

I heard you get in around midnight.
The dogs did their due diligence then scrambled back in bed.
I dozily called out and you said, "Goodnight. I love you, mama."
"I love you too, Tay."
Always let those be the last words you say to the ones you love
for they may, indeed, be the last words.
I did not see the despair.
How did I miss that?
But I felt it today.
Despair when I found your body trying to die.
Despair as I held your seizing body and could only think, "Airway. Airway. Airway."
Despair as I fumbled the phone with one hand thinking, 
"911 - goddammit, that's all you have to manage."
Despair as the line rang while I repeated my address 
over and over in my head 
so I wouldn't forget it.
Despair at uttering the words, "Possible overdose".
And when you stopped seizing and fell silent in my arms . . .
eternal, breath-stopping seconds of despair.
And then you took a breath . . .
And the flashing red lights arrived . . .
And this morning as I stare at you sleeping peacefully,
thanking God you're still here,
the sunrise view from ICU 220
harbors hope.

Kali's Bones

It's been a while. I'm not dragging Stained into this time. It's just been a long time. Period.

It was a busy summer. 

According to the tide table on the desk in Seaside, I have been away since July. 

That's just unacceptable. 

That's the bad news. 

The good news is that I am moving to Seaside in January. 

For reals. 

Forever. 

In the meantime, this happened right around Equinox - September 20, to be exact.

It rained. I found bones. I made plans.  

Thank you, Jerry, for holding space for the holy in all it's forms.
I'm including images from the month(ish).
They just are. 

Kali's Bones

Kali showed up yesterday and she isn’t pretty.

Gorgeous and rich and wild and vehement, yes.

But not pretty.

Her eyes were bulging, her face purple and her tongue dangling in rage.

She is gonna level this place.

And when she’s done

there will be bones to gather

amidst the chattering, dead dune grass.

Another century’s cape will billow in the October wind.

My four-legged will hover closely.

He knows.

I’ll raise my arms and face to the scourging rain

and be washed clean

and I will know. 

Because I have always known - 

And I will always know.

The Last Thing I Want To Eat (As In, 'Before I Die')

I've been working my way to this slowly and you have to cut me some slack . . . I grew up in a Seventh-day Adventist home, vegetarian with a particular emphasis on the uncleanliness of seafood. I couldn't bear the smell of my elementary school friends' tuna sandwiches. I was in college before I tasted my first shrimp. My gateway seafood was the Lobster Pie at the Hilltop Restaurant in Saugus, MA circa 1986-1990 while Kelvin was studying at MIT. Such good memories. We usually shared food but when it came to the Lobster Pie - big hunks of lobster, butter, bread crumbs, more butter and, I think, cheese - I shared with no one. Kelvin got a fork in the back of the hand when he tried to steal some once. True story. True Gateway Drug.

Oysters? I still struggle with them. As a nurse I suctioned stuff out of patient lungs which bore way too much resemblance to the tubs of oysters sold in the seafood department. No thanks. A date once bought a tub of those oysters here in Seaside. We sat out on the beach to eat them. I tried. Really, I did. But I was so focused on not dry-heaving that I totally missed the aphrodisiac effect. Since then I have braved  oyster shooters with salsa,  grilled oysters and can claim to love the ponzu oyster shooters at Sushi Okalani. This is progress!

Clams?  They were things in a shell that surely had to be as snotty as oysters. If hidden in chowder they were okay; otherwise I avoided them. I remember a hospice patient who expressed a last-meal desire for fresh fried razor clams. I totally did not get it.

This past March I was at my favorite seafood shop, Bell Bouy in Seaside, eyeballing my usual crab. I noticed razor clams still in the shell AND I could see they were moving.  They were still alive!  I was immediately intrigued and confessed to the woman behind the counter I had never worked with live clams - but wanted to. She told me the easiest thing was to YouTube clam cleaning videos. I bought 3 clams and went home optimistically. Indeed, there were a number of videos and I cleaned my clams successfully. Okay, I did squeal and drop that first clam in the sink when it squirmed as I snipped off the siphon tip. I thought, mistakenly, it had died with the boiling water dunk.  But I picked him back up, finished the job and then went HERE to the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife for recipes. Triumph!  Fried clams with a squeeze of lemon. I was hooked.

I spent a couple months buying clams and cooking them.  I got live in the shell when I could; cleaned when I couldn't. I ate them fried; in clam pasta sauce;  in chowder - and fell in love with them. And then I started thinking about catching my own clams.  The tide schedule and my beach schedule were out of sync until this weekend (cue the angel choir and divine sunburst breaking through the clouds) which turned out to be the Holy Grail weekend of clamming on the Oregon Coast. I remember these conditions last year quite vividly:  I woke up, looked out my bedroom window and saw what seemed to be all of Seaside out on the beach.  I sleepily wondered if there had been a disaster. A tsunami maybe  . . . but of course people would not have been HANGING OUT ON THE BEACH for a tsunami. Why were they out there?! It's probably safe to say there were thousands, all pursuing, as I learned, the razor clam. The same clam my hospice patient had longed for on his death bed. This year I get it. People love their clams. People want clams for their last meal. I now loved clams. And I was gonna catch some.

I purchased a clamming license at Fred Meyer and a clam gun at Costco. I read a few books on clamming. I had a plastic Safeway bag to stash what was sure to be a bountiful harvest and a mop handle to bang on the sand. (this, in spite of the fact I had no idea why people banged sticks and shovels on the sand when clamming.)  I sorta knew what to do . . . sorta had some gear but was thoroughly intimidated by all those people out there who actually knew what they were doing.

Thursday morning the conditions were perfect.  I self-consciously walked out to the beach, pretty sure I looked as ridiculous as I felt. I shouldn't have worried. Within 5 minutes I ran into  'Clammie Annie' - the clamming zealot mother of my friend Michelle, owner of Seaside Coffee House. In no time she introduced me to her friends who took me under their very accomplished wings and taught me the basics of clamming. My first day out, with a little help from my friends, I dug a full limit of 15 clams.

That night I fried 4 of them for dinner. 

I don't know when anything tasted better. I was eating clams I caught with my own hands and sipping a lovely pinot gris while looking at the ocean they had been in that morning. There is some sort of poetic perfectness there. For the clams, maybe not so much. I did thank them.

That first day I was a tourist clammer, graciously tolerated by the locals. I had Bog boots and a decent clam gun, but the Safeway bag totally pegged me as a newbie . . . as did the wimpy mop handle with no leash, forcing me to juggle it with each dig so it didn't wash away. I took mental notes as my clam guru, Walt, gave me gentle suggestions. Let me introduce Walt by saying he has a sweet, black lab-mix dog. When you ask his name, as mostly women do, he replies, "His name is CM - Chick Magnet. He caught you, didn't he?!"  The dog's real name is Gizmo and he digs clams. No shit. And he bites the tip off the siphon. Honestly. I saw him do it. All jokes aside, Walt has been clamming forever and was very generous in sharing his knowledge.  I needed to lose the Safeway bag and get a square Costco milk jug, cut just so, to store my freshly caught clams. I needed to attach that milk jug and my leashed tamper of choice (turned out to be a Louisville Slugger baseball bat) to a belt. Preferably a belt that came with a pair of fishing waders. Waders weren't required, but would make everything easier, drier and warmer. Gardening gloves were recommended and I needed to lose the jewelry. This was no  time to look cute. Walt told me of one women who tangled an earring in her clam net when she was up to her shoulder in the sand reaching for a clam. I was NOT going to be that woman.

This morning I strolled out to the freshly exposed clam bed and found Walt and Gizmo. "Well, look at you!' he said with a big smile.  I was earring-less and ring-less; had my waders, belt, milk jug, baseball bat and my clam gun. I think I passed. Especially when he learned that my waders were half price because I got a Youth XL instead of a Men's Small. Score one for the newbie!!!

We spent a little time together and then went our separate ways. I didn't want him to have to babysit me again. I struggled, as did everyone, today.  The conditions just weren't the same. 3 hours later I had 13 clams - 2 short of the limit. But I found them all by myself and one of them was a sexy 5.5 inches long. I measured. (I'm reminded here of Walt's terrible joke about why women can't be carpenters. It's because they've been told all their lives that this {indicating a measurement of about 3 inches with his fingers} is 6 inches. Oh, Walt . . .)

This afternoon I cleaned 28 clams. I thanked each one before I dunked it in boiling water to pop it's shell open.

I know when the next clam-worthy negative tide will occur and have it marked on my calendar. I know the thrill of seeing a clam 'show'; the  feel of a clam gun hitting a shell and what it feels like to be up to my shoulder in the sand with a clam at my finger tips and a wave coming in. I know what it feels like to lose that clam - and what it feels like to just barely snag it, feel it trying to dig down and manage to pull it out while the water is swirling around me. I own waders with neoprene booties. I am a clammer. Not a great one, but a clammer all the same. I suspect someday I'll request fresh fried razor clams for dinner one last time before I die - and I will move heaven and earth to honor the request if I ever hear of another dying man who wants clams for dinner. Why the passion? Are the clams we catch technically any different from the ones we buy? Nahh. But the experience!  My guess is that dying man was longing for the coast, the smell of salt air and the sound of the waves;  a return to his youth; the thrill of the hunt, camaraderie with clamming buddies, bringing abundance home to his family . . . and, certainly, delicious dinners. Perhaps he was longing for a place and time that held goodness for him in this life before moving on to the next. I get it now. It's part of this place I love so much.  I love every new experience here.  My soul has found its home - and its people.  Even when alone, I am never lonely. Today I am content.  Happy as a clam, one might say.  No one ever mentions the qualifier of that phrase. I never heard it until yesterday. It really goes like this: "Happy as a clam at high water."   Today the water is high.

Mother's Day Ramble

It's 8:47 am Sunday morning. Mother's Day 2014. The morning after Taylor and her date sat on the couch in tux and prom dress watching movies because she hurled after their pre-prom dinner.

                 

It's also the morning after the monumental trouncing of Vancouver's Storm City Roller Girls by Hood River's very own Gorge Roller Girls. The score was something like 384 to 68. At some point, knowing the exact score ceased to be important.

I woke up in a rush thinking it was 8:30-something, only to discover my 52 year-old eyes had lied to me, yet again. It was actually 6:30-something. But I was up and a cup of home-made chai was calling to me. So I fed the dogs, emptied the dishwasher (and instantly filled it from the mound of dishes in the sink), finished making the chai and sat down for a moment in the backyard . . . in a skimpy yoga top . . . in the sun. If you're not from Oregon you need to understand  that last part should not be breezily passed over.  Let me repeat: a skimpy yoga top . . . in the sun . . . mid-May . . . Oregon. And I was comfortable!  It's already a gorgeous day in the Gorge (you do know that's where the word gorgeous comes from, right?).

I closed my eyes and took a moment to hear the birds, both the chirping variety and the humming ones. The dogs were rolling deliriously in the grass, bringing me slimy bits of stick as love gifts and demonstrating down dog and up dog better than any yoga instructor I've ever had. I admired my freshly cut lawn and was not the least bit distressed about all the dandelions. Life's too short for that, I've decided.

Two of my real pleasures of the day are sleeping the sleep of late-night teenagers upstairs in their beds and the third is a short 3 miles away in her own bed. I am happy to have them all in one place, more or less, for a couple days. Our plans are to convene on Riverdaze for sourdough bacon waffles and coffee and I'll get to look in their eyes and marvel at the lovely human beings they have become.

I may be a little biased, but I honestly like them. I kinda have to love them, but I don't have to like them. I take great pleasure in liking my kids.

I spent time with my own mom this week. She moved on to the next big thing in 1995. Thursday she would have been 92. Our tradition is to catch up over a box of Russell Stover chocolates. I am always willing to share but usually end up eating the whole thing. Thanks, Mom.

Before the day takes off I hope for you a few quiet moments to soak up some wonderfulness. If you have offspring, if you've been like a parent to someone special who needed you, if you've made difficult choices,  if you have lost a child . . . I honor you and send much love. I hope your day includes something fabulous like bacon waffles with your favorite people.

And where is Matris Oceanus in all of this? Why, she IS all of it, of course. Happy Mother's Day to the Mother of all mothers. I'll see you Wednesday.

Addendum: After a wonderful breakfast at Riverdaze we strolled to the newly opened 'The Chocolate Lab'. We found it necessary to sample Lavender/Chocolate Caramels, Habanero/Lime Caramels, Cherry/Balsamic Vinegar Chocolates and (drum roll here . . .) Bleu Cheese/Almond Chocolates.

                   

Bleu Cheese and Chocolate? Amazing. Who knew?!

And thank you, Sunde, for sending us home with the fancy bottle of  Cherry Balsamic drinking vinegar without charge and trusting us to come back when you know the price. You have 4 loyal customers now.

Cheers!

Extraordinary Friendship

You know how you mean to go somewhere or do something and you kinda never get around to it? And then one day, boom, you just pull off to the side of the road and visit the park you've been driving by for 3 years.  And, just maybe, something extraordinary happens.

I was returning from 3 Cups Coffee House in Astoria (and a bonus, unexpected meeting of author Matt Love whom I have referenced right here and here).  I originally heard about this park from a Native woman who considered it to be a sacred place.  On the  Reuben Snake Memorial Facebook Page I learned this: "Originally targeted for condominium development, a 20-acre site including Neawanna Point north of Seaside was donated to the North Coast Land Conservancy because of its unique historical and cultural value. In exchange for preserving the site, the developer created a memorial to Ruben Snake, a Winnebago tribe member who fought for the Religious Freedom Restoration Act of 1993. The memorial now overlooks Neawanna Point."  

I don't know if this park has an official name. It's just north of Java Reef Coffee on Hwy 101. There is a parking area and a historical marker referencing Lewis & Clark, salt, salmon and Native Americans. In the same breath it talks about 'Extraordinary Friendship' and the fact that we ravaged the population with the disease we introduced  . . . Hmm. That doesn't seem friendly at all.  

Anyway, I saw the park and instantly pulled over. . . a totally impulsive moment. I got out of my car and walked the hundred yards toward a path leading into one of the beautiful, coastal, rain-forest-y woods I love almost as much as I love the beach. As I rounded a corner and came upon the Reuben Snake monument I was startled to find a dog tied to a fence. She growled and barked and I gave her a wide berth. I wondered why she might be there. Were her owners hiking in the woods? Odd. 20 acres doesn't seem to be such a large area that you wouldn't take your dog with you.  I became more curious when I didn't run into any other people on the short hike. Coming out of the woods I approached the dog who still growled - but with considerably less conviction. She was shaking and nervous and there was something like pleading in her eyes.  I sat near her and spoke softly; watched her step forward then back then forward again, this time with her head lowered. I sat there and watched her hesitate, think about it and deliberately choose trust.  I won't soon forget that. I slowly moved closer and let her smell my hand. In no time she was nuzzling me and licking my face. You can probably see where this story is going.

I left a note on the fence post: "I'm sorry if I accidentally rescued your dog. She seemed alone." - along with my phone number. For today her name is Ruby. She is smart, loving, house-broken, sits on command and fetches like a fiend. She and Reggie are already old pals.  I reluctantly left messages with Clatsop County and Seaside animal control.  I hope none of them call back. 

Addendum 4/26/14: 8 hours later no one had called about their missing dog. I went back to the park and retrieved my note. If animal control calls on Monday I'll tell them her people claimed her and there's a happy ending. It's the truth.

Addendum 6/10/14: Ok, so I actually worried that someone with a legitimate story might want their dog back so I did cooperate with Seaside Animal Control. The officer wanted me to have Ruby as much as I did, but we did our due diligence. Ruby was photographed and documented and scanned negative for a chip. Animal control was heading out on vacation for a week and it was going to be yet another week before I got back to Seaside. That was mid-May. She never called back and neither did I. Ruby is now licensed, micro-chipped and registered to me. 

And they all lived happily ever after. The end.

Scrambled Clam Hash With a Side of Rain

Short on words today; long on love for this place.

"Price"less!

This morning I was in my happy place at my happy place (that would be Seaside Coffee House) when the nicest text came through. Hood River friends, Brian and Audrey Price and their 5 kids, were on their way home from Manzanita and wanted to meet in Seaside. We've talked about this a number of times and never quite connected - but today was the day! I hurried home, made my bed, threw dishes in the dishwasher and had enough time to dash to the local market and get 2 bags of oyster crackers. Kids + Seagulls + Oyster Crackers = Good Fun! (I hoped!)

You all know how much I love this place. And I know that kids (and dogs) all love to run and play at the beach. So I knew it would be fun, but I wan't sure . . . would they think the Boneyard was weird? (No) Would the seagulls scare them? (No) Would my dog hump their legs the entire time? (Yeah. So sorry about that.) 

It was a super fun visit with the unexpected bonus of seeing my beloved Boneyard through the eyes of 5 enthusiastic, energetic, curious little humans. Every rock, piece of bone and shell was a prize discovery. The seagulls and even the crows (my bad beach boys) behaved themselves and  feasted gratefully on oodles of oyster crackers. Reggie chased the birds and the kids relentlessly.  Kids stumbled and fell over rocks and got back up without a peep, in a hurry to get to the next thing.  Excellent questions were asked; imaginations fired full blast; no one thought the bones were gross and the sun even peeked out here and there!  When we got back to the house we compared individual bones to an intact bird skeleton; made spiralizer zucchini noodles and discussed horror movies while exploring the creepy basement. It was a good day.

Audrey and Brian, you guys rock. You are ballet dancers - making the grueling, exhausting work of parenthood look flawlessly effortless. Now that my 'young' parenthood days are behind me, I marvel at how we do it - but we do. And before you know it, your precious babies will be driving themselves to college in pick-up trucks and you'll wonder how you got there. And then you'll smile and have a glass of wine mid-afternoon - because you can!  I bow before you and thank you for sharing your beautiful family with me today. Much love to you all. See ya back in The Hood. And now I'm going to have a glass of wine!

A Room Without a Roof

Spring may technically be four days away but . . .

    I'm here to tell you . . .

It's here!

Baby green shoots are rising out of the dead dune grass; 

the beach pea is unfolding its little green palms;

 the slugs 

 (and Kim Lindemeyer) are dancing to THIS. 

 (Clap, Clap, Clap-Clap Clap)
  Don't even start in with the 'slugs can't clap' stuff.
I saw them.

Some images and words from the last few days . . . 

happy spring to you all!

Irrelevant

Oh, God dammit.
I forgot to label the bag.

Was that Colombian or Guatemalan?

I always think I'll remember.
I never do.

I fumble the #4 Melita filter in the pre-dawn light

But, mostly, my hands know what to do.

I gather my rain gear and the cup fills in drips.

Reggie prances. He knows this ritual.

Coffee in hand and a deliriously happy dog . . .

Can this be anything but good?

The bones of it are always the same:

Wake up

Brush teeth (maybe)

Last night's clothes

Coffee
Out the door.

That part doesn't change.

What comes next, however, is never the same.

I never know what will be out there.

Yesterday was an "iron" day . . .

An iron spike covered in those tube-worm things -

Medusa!

A twisted, crusted iron crucifix.
(benedictio in nomine Matris Oceanus)

I meander and sip.

My coffee cup gathers residue of sand and dog treats, shells, bones and kelp.

When my hands are too full I set my cup on an accommodating rock -

To better continue the hunt.

When I return the coffee is cold,

Diluted with rain

And kissed with salt.

It's the most perfect cup of coffee ever.

And the Colombian/Guatemalan debate becomes irrelevant. 

Goddesses at the Beach

I've spent some time getting to know Athena, Artemis, Diana and Elizabeth the 1st. They are powerful Goddesses (ok, Elizabeth was technically mortal, but only just barely), who, while invoking sometimes raging independence, also had their soothing and healing moments. They were usually fair and always unapologetic.
Artemis, in particular, is 'fiercely individualistic and and independent; she remains apart from relationship to men.' (Goddess Knowledge Cards Susan Eleanor Boulet).
Elizabeth is quoted as saying, "Better beggar woman and single than Queen and married."
and
"I am called the Virgin Queen.
Unmarried,
I have no master.
Childless,
I am mother to my people.
God give me strength to bear this mighty freedom."
Single AND queen seems to have been both a perfect compromise and an overwhelming burden. I am grateful for my simple life.
Artemis, Diana,  Athena and the Red Stag and Elizabeth the 1st - beautiful imagery online.
Today a mix of all four showed themselves via driftwood and bird bones at the beach.

And then tonight I heard them all in K.D. Lang's Hallelujah.
Watch it. All the way to the end. What beauty. What grace.
And as long as we're speaking of perfection . . .
fresh fried razor clams
(the recipe on the left; adapted for, like, 4 clams if you're a solo goddess; you will want leftovers for scrambled clam hash in the morning. I promise.)
with a squeeze of lemon.
The Ladies all would have approved.
Hallelujah..

About Time

I think about perspective at the ocean . . . 

feeling small in the face of such expansiveness. 

Today I got a wave of  that perspective across the coffee shop counter. . .

Today I spoke to a man

with two small children.

His wife is battling cancer.

He told me

the things he once thought were important

don't matter much anymore.

"It's the little things,' 

he said, as I handed him his coffee,

"the things right in front of you,

that matter the most."

Much love and honor to you both, T & M.

Naked Branches

It's been a while . . .

Hmmm. I was going to say it's been a while since I wrote but I was instantly hijacked by those words.

2001.  Staind

" . . . it's been awhile

Since I've seen the way the candles light your face

And it's been awhile but I can still remember just the way you taste . . ."

That was a powerful year. Not my most graceful. But powerful. And now it's 2014. 

Belated Happy New Year.

Naked Branches 

The question is raised sooner rather than later.

Being human,

we seem driven to know

sooner rather than later -

"What is it you want?"

But the question is all wrong,
isn't it?

"Am I what you want?" 

is what's really being asked.

The question reduces me to tears

because to name it is to shake the leaves off . . .

and expose it . . .

and naked is scary.

But here it is

in spite of the fears. . .

in spite of the tears . . .

in the broadest brush strokes . . .

I want to love without reservation

and I want to be loved
in return
without reservation.

But there -

to want love in return concedes a condition and
renders reservation,

doesn't it?

Semantics or truth?

I don't know and I'm too tired to care.

What this flawed human wants

in my flawed human way

is to stand before you

naked branches and all

and be seen and loved and held

and to know there is a place 

with you

where I can exhale and relax and trust that

most likely

tomorrow you will still feel the same way.

And

 that you will stand before me

naked branches and all

and allow yourself to be seen and loved and held
and to know there is a place
with me
where you can exhale and relax and trust that

most likely

tomorrow I will still feel the same way.

That's all, really.