Things I Could Go For..

Britt's Doughnut

Sweet Tea

Waffle Fries from Chick-Fil-A

Chicken Minis from Chick-Fil-A (ok, seriously, anything from CFA)

A girl's night out. With only girls.

The sound of the waves crashing.

A cookie covered kiss from my nephew.

A pack of cookies.

Sleep.

Happy Birthday!

Have you ever had that person who always pushed you to give it your all, but not in the annoying, gonna feel like a failure if you mess up, kind of way. In a way where when you lose one of your many soccer games you hear "Did you win?" "Nope" "Did you have fun?" "Yes! Let me tell you about it...." and him saying "Well that's all that matters! and then pretending like he's listening for the next couple hours about a silly middle school soccer game. He's the man who calls my cell phone, still to this day, and sings "I just called to say I love you", and not the short version... He's the daddy everyone hugs when they see him and asks how Mr. Davis, Ken, Dale, or Uncle Joe is doing when they haven't seen him lately.

And he's all MINE! (well, with the exception of sharing him with my sister)

I couldn't have asked for a better daddy. I personally don't remember any times where I was so angry at him I could run away. Probably because my sister and I were genuine daddy's girls. He's always treated us like princesses and still does. He'll always know when you're lying, so don't even try to say you were home late because of the bridge being up. The worst thing he ever said to me, the one time in my life when I was 13 and just WISHED he would beat the crap out of me instead of the response I did receive was,

"I'm not angry, just disappointed."

And that was the first time I've ever seen my daddy, a 57 year old (at the time) man, cry. I promised myself, from that day on, that I would never do anything ever again to cause my daddy to cry. This caused me to make much better choices in my life than some old friends or schoolmates who completely ruined their lives, and broke their family's hearts.
The only reason I never went through with moving to Oregon, well, until August, was because of him. I didn't want to break his heart. He was the first person I talked to about it. I wanted to see his initial response, and base my move on that. I don't know if he was just trying to look really strong, or if he was really OK with the idea, but he told me "I'm going to be sad to know you're not here every night (pause), but I'm already sad knowing you are here and not happy with your life, so I rather you go and try to find happiness". And that was this move's theme. Find happiness. I think it found me. It fills my soul and comes out my lips with laughter! I still miss my daddy, mama, and the tri-mulli crew like mad, but nothing a little phone call can't cure!

My daddy turned 68 today. He pretends he doesn't like a big whoo-haaa for his birthday, but who doesn't?? I set my alarm and called him early to sing Happy Birthday in my sleepy voice and ask about his day. He informed me that he got a rich, delicious chocolate cake in the shape of a heart from the equally fabulous person on this planet. He said the type of thing that I somewhat expected to hear, but still means a lot to me to this day, especially with his heart/health history.

"I'm just so blessed to have made it another year."

We all get so wrapped up what you got and where you're going and what you're doing for our birthday celebrations, but forget what it really means. We freakin' made it to another one! Live life and appreciate it because we never know what we'll make it to.

Happy Birthday, Daddy! Enjoy your cake!

Sad Eyes

Today I woke up on the couch after a fun, relaxing, easy going Friday night. My phone laid beside me lifeless, not even able to turn on. I plugged it in, ran downstairs, and harassed my roommate about what's for breakfast. After convincing him to get up and lets get biscuits and gravy (preferably somewhere that serves sweet tea), I took my time preparing for the day as easy as it came. Once my phone got a little juice to it, I turned it on, only to receive the types of messages you don't want to receive from the family you adore 3,000 miles away. One voicemail. One text message. "Did you get my voicemail? Call me as soon as you can". For  y'all who know me best, I never listen to my voicemail. This sounded like I should check it to maybe get prepared for the worst. Sobbing. "It's not Ethan." I didn't hear much after that.

I can't help but hate the fact that I haven't seen him in the past couple years. I use to look to this boy as if he was my parents' son. He came around for holidays, my parents thought the world of him. He thought the world of my sister. I would always get so pumped when he was on his way over. He treated me like a little sister when he was around. He would tell me that I could date a certain boy, or that I should stay away from certain boys. Really wish I would've listened to him on more than one occasion...

My heart aches and my eyes are as heavy as my heart and sad. I hurt for his parents, I hurt for his little sister who is only a year younger than me. For a second tonight on my late night bike ride I thought of her and what it would be like to be in her shoes. I collapsed even thinking of it. Her only sibling, physically gone forever. I hurt for everyone who's lives he's touched. I hurt everytime I see someone's facebook response who says "He was such a great guy" I'm so sick of seeing "great guy" Michael was so much more than that. I always looked up to him the way I'm sure his little sister looks to him. The way you can look past someone's problems and flaws and see their heart and love bursting out of them. The fact that I, or anyone else, could've probably still called him, even if it's been years since I've last seen him, and ask him to do a favor, and he would be there. No questions asked.

I hate that he'll never see 30. I hate that I'll never look twice when I see a truck like his to see if it's him. I hate that he never moved to Raleigh. He never got to where he wanted to be.

I hurt most of all for my sister. He worshipped my sister. They grew their different ways after highschool, but I know she always holds a special place in his heart. I want to be home to hug my sister. The phone just isn't the same. I want to sit on the couch with her and rub her scalp and just give her the company and shoulder to lean on. Physically. We would probably spend the day laughing at memories of Michael.

It doesn't seem real. Since I'm not there I can't feel the heartache next to me. I can't see the tears, I don't hear everyone talking about it. I don't feel as though it's true. It can't be, can it? We can't ignore it anymore. Please don't drink and drive. It's stupid. You can not only kill people, but rip the hearts out of everyone who loves you. It's not worth it. Please call me if you need cab money. I don't have a lot of money but I'll find it for you if it means saving your life, and not breaking my heart. I use to get so irritated when my mom, dad, or sister would find out I had a drink and would drive home. Now I know why. It 'effing sucks to know it could've been so easily prevented.

Rest in peace, Michael. I love you and I still don't really believe it's true. Maybe once my eyes dry I'll see the truth.

Burnin' Down The House

No, I didn't set my new house on fire.
I'm home alone this whole weekend. Empty house. Just me and a half eaten pizza. I've dedicated this weekend to cleaning and organizing and getting stuff done without the tv distracting me, or a book for that matter. I just finished "A Million Little Pieces" by James Frey and it consumed me every second of the day, unless my hands were in someone's hair, or feeding my mouth, or taking a shower. So tonight after work I pulled out they Lysol, the broom and dust pan, clean sheets and towels, and the furniture polish. I turned up Mason Jennings on my lap top and turned on only the lights of which room I was cleaning. I started on the top of the house and worked my way down the hall, through the bathroom, down the stairs, and around the loop of this circle house. In my room, there were still 4 large boxes from where I shipped my stuff over here from North Carolina. They just kind of collected old bus tickets, water bottles, credit card statements, etc. I decided it was time to gain the floor to my bedroom and get rid of these boxes. After sorting the recycling vs. the trash, I was curious on what to do with these gigantic boxes? I gazed out the kitchen window, saw the fire pit, and had a fabulous idea.

I didn't realize how much of a sentimental event this would become. As the fire got stronger, I would place a box on the fire and watch it melt away. Goodbye box. The first two were easy to watch burn away. The third box, however, turned from a box burning in a fire pit, to my box, the box which held only my prized possessions-photo frames of my friends and family, clothes, important documents-for a couple weeks. I started noticing the fire's beautiful orange and yellow flames dancing in the cool wind. I followed the ashes intertwine with smoke high above the tallest pines. While I followed the smoke and ashes that high above, I noticed the stars glistening. The snaps and crackles flooded my ears, as did Mason Jennings from the living room of the house. I turned back to the box to see that the flame had lessened and the box was no longer a box, but just a pile of red and orange ashes. I proceeded to place the fourth, and last, box on the small flames. It was engulfed immediately and the flames grew again and history repeated itself. The ashes danced in the starlight with the billowing smoke, and floated back to the ground, like a scene from Edward Scissorhands. I looked back at the box, and the tape which once held my precious belongings safely in this box, was curling away and melting from the heat. I watched it curl across the top of box and followed it to what almost broke my heart.

Written in a turquoise Crayola marker, courtesy of the lady at the Delco Post Office, in the top left corner of this box, was J. Davis, followed by my Riegelwood address. My eyes harassed the melting tape down further until I get to the "To" address. This is my address. This is my new address. This is the box that once took so much of my time and attention to make sure it was only packed with necessities and love. This was my box that held my possessions. This was the box that drove and flew across the country to get to this address. I'm the girl that did the same as this box, and ended up at the same place. I'm the girl that's clear across the country from her mama and daddy, her sister and nephew and brother in law, her best of friends. This box just melted in front of my eyes.

Right now the box no longer exists, physically. That box will never hold my things again. It will never make them feel secure. And it will never go back to Breezy Acres Dr.

Me and this box isn't as much alike as I thought we were.