Among the Ruins

The absence of my functioning heart leaves me breathless, vomiting, and in ruins. The odd mixture of pain feels quite fitting as I look out over the River Boyne in County Meath, Ireland. On top of the Keep, I cannot get over the view that pans before my eyes—rolling hills in various shades of green, with stone walls slowly flowing in the distance. It sounds cliché but the postcard image exists before me and underneath me.
How I find beauty despite the anguish I do not know.
The rain from the morning finished when we ambled off the bus as if it had foreshadowed our tour of the castle. Now looking out I see vegetation more luscious in color than I’ll ever see at home in America. The green somehow emanating more deeply in color with every piece of foliage and upon every hill. Tranquility and stillness.
When I close my eyes I feel the breeze whisper across my cheeks, the smell of sheep and soil suddenly invading my nostrils. I gag slightly, but nothing compared to the morning I spent over the toilet. How ironic that filth would invade such a moment.
Opening my eyes I focus on more ruins in the distance. Pieces of once grand structures, their strong walls now suitable as piles of stones. I have a sudden feeling of fear when I glance out over the edge realizing how high I am, and in looking at the edifices reduced to ruins, the sudden onset of chest pain and breathlessness returns.

۩ ۩ ۩

The word ruins describe the remains of man-made architecture: structures that were once complete but which have fallen into a state of partial or complete disrepair due to lack of maintenance or deliberate acts of destruction. Many ruins often become progressively neglected over time due to long-term weather and scavenging.
Trim Castle, located 28 miles northwest of Dublin in County Meath along the banks of the River Boyne, is one of the largest and most beautiful Anglo-Norman castle ruins in Ireland. It has the reputation as being the king of all Irish castles and was built to display the great wealth and dominance of its owners.
However, over time it was purposely allowed to deteriorate, falling into ruins.
During the 16^th century the castle was abandoned by Oliver Cromwell’s Army and allowed to depreciate. Over the next few hundred years its ownership passed from hand to hand never having as much purpose as it did originally. At one point it became the site for a municipal dump.
When beautiful things are neglected, they become trashed.
In 1993, Trim Castle estate was sold back to the country of Ireland and the Office of Public Works began a major program of conservation and exploratory works trying to restore the grand castle without changing the history and construction of it.
It’s hard rebuilding from the ground up.

I’ve been afraid of heights in my lifetime. I’ve been afraid of spiders. I’ve been afraid of snakes and public speaking. I’ve been afraid of flying and of the dark, but I’ve never been afraid of death. There has never been any reason to be scared of something so certain. What has pained me the most in this short brevity of life has been the idea of my heart shattered. Of it being broken into thousands of hopeless, inadequate pieces. Because once my heart has metaphorically faded, what will keep the rest of me from ruins?

“With what a deep devotedness of woe
I wept thy absence – o’er and o’er again
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,
And memory, like a drop that, night and day,
Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away!”
-Thomas Moore

Now, what I fear the most is living and simply feeling nothing.

Most people with broken hearts experience symptoms manifesting through psychological pain, claiming to feel nothing; however, there are such symptoms of physical effects:

· Stomach ache and/or loss of appetite
· Partial or complete insomnia
· Anger
· Shock
· Nostalgia
· Apathy
· Loneliness
· Hopelessness
· Denial
· Fatigue
· The thousand-yard stare
· Frequent crying
· A feeling of complete emptiness
· A perceived tightness of the chest, similar to an anxiety attack

However, the experience of great suffering and emotional pain is commonly regarded as indescribable, though a broken heart may occur.

۩ ۩ ۩

Stress cardiomyopathy is the sudden, temporary weakening of the myocardium, the muscle of the heart. Triggered by something very unexpected, such as the death of a loved one, this syndrome can actually be fatal. Clinically different from a heart attack, stress cardiomyopathy is known as ‘broken heart syndrome’ because to ordinary eyes, it seems as if people die from what appears to simply be a broken heart.
Most onsets of stress cardiomyopathy begin like a regular heart attack—the sudden onset of congestive heart failure or chest pain associated with EKG changes suggestive of an anterior wall heart attack. But what really happens with stress cardiomyopathy is that some people respond to abrupt, overwhelming emotional stress by releasing large amounts of catecholamines (specifically adrenalin and noradrenalin, also called epinephrine and norepinephrine) into the blood stream, along with their breakdown products and small proteins produced by an excited nervous system. These chemicals can be temporarily toxic to the heart, effectively stunning the muscle thus producing symptoms similar to a typical heart attack, including chest pain, fluid in the lungs, shortness of breath and heart failure.

In general, the lack of maintenance in life, or sometimes those deliberate acts of destruction force hearts into a ruin-like state.

“I kneel before you not as a prince, but as a man in love… But I would feel like a king if you, Danielle De Barbarac, would be my wife.”
Ever After

Though castles clearly exist and royalty once claimed them, there is no such hope for a happily-ever-after. The moment when he kneeled before me and took my hand remains in the back of my heart and replays itself over and over again in one of the tiny pieces that somehow continue to pump me with life. In the same breath in which he asked for my heart, he took it away when he firmly decided I wasn’t important to him anymore. Like most, I cannot explain the pain that still resides in the hollowness of my chest and continues to haunt me, words are inadequate and symptoms are indescribable. I simply feel nothing.
But for a brief moment I know what brokenness is. Crumbled on the ground of a 12^th century castle, I wrap my arms around my chest to hold everything in.

 

Clothed in Strength

The houses pass by with silent motivation as she counts steps. Inhale, one two three, Exhale one two, Inhale one two three, Exhale one two. Every in and out breath is a different foot strike, keeping the impact of her body balanced. Less sustained injuries overtime. More even strikes to get rid of the pain now. She breathes just as silently as the houses, yet their looming speaks, pushing her onward. She’s braving her normal route, the boulevard full of ideal American houses, the road he drove numerous times with her while he designed their future in his head. The house coming up on her left, the one with the flag hung on the doorstep, reminds her of him. She takes another long stride and pushes her breath. Keep the pace steady. It’s just a flag, nothing says it has to belong to him. Run past it. The next house is a one story with blue shutters, just like he once painted for her. It’s a house, only a house. Don’t let your foot turn over. You can’t afford a rolled ankle for one distracting thought. Run past it. As her pace moves her down the boulevard she feels the breeze picking up some, fluttering the front of her pink running top. Only then does she realize her strength as a woman running. Run past it, she tells herself.

* * * * *

That pink running tank is an odd object compared to my childhood. Pink was an unpleasant color when I was younger. I absolutely loathed it. My mother must have been forewarned by the fates before I left her womb because my room had not one ounce of pink on any of the decorations. I’m almost sure that I came home in a yellow outfit. I don’t know if it is the fact that my mother wasn’t completely sure I was going to be a girl, or if the fates told her, or if she just hated pink as well, but the color didn’t come into my life until the time I dressed up as Rock Star Barbie for my 10^th Halloween. Whatever the reason, I was absolutely against the color. I wouldn’t wear it, I wouldn’t color with it, I would hardly even eat bubble gun because the pink was so daunting.
Now as a runner, my most favorite possession is my hot pink sports bra. I can’t seem to buy enough girly pink running clothes. Somehow I’d like to think it’s some sort of a weird phase, that maybe I missed out on the whole idea of pink being a girl color. That I was deprived in my wardrobe as a child or neglected my femininity. But it’s none of those.
Because when I walk into my closet in the early morning to dress myself for a run, I have options, but I also have enough pink to last me from laundry day to laundry day. So I pull out one of my many pink tanks and pull it on finding strength in myself for a six am run.

* * * * *

She tried running the day he told her he wanted to call off the wedding. When it initially happened, when she read the words in his email, her lungs stopped. It would be amazing if she could breathe steadily through a pace. But she knew she had too. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was away or if he really meant it, but at the time, running was all she could think about.
Pulling her pink jacket and running shoes out of his military suitcase he sent with her, she ambled down the stairs and out the front door. When the wind hit her face she found her breath. It was easier out here. One loop. That’s all you have to make it through. Don’t let him take this either. As she stands up from tying her shoe, the sun peaks out of the Irish clouds. A day forecast for rain yet somehow, there’s a brightness. She lets her feet slowly pick up and they thunk on the heavy asphalt. She knows she is holding back, moving too slow. Come on, you need this. He cannot take this from you. You are the one moving, pacing. Let the heaviness go. Run past it. She thinks to herself that it won’t be easy, life’s never easy, but she has to move forward. There’s a reason. The anger inside of her was building and she felt it propelling her strides. You’ve found your breath, your lungs are working, you’ve got this. Don’t let him take it. She picks up the pace and lets her strides pound away every ounce of love she once gave away. Suddenly she thinks about what she is wearing— a fucking pink jacket because he hates it—and her strides lengthen, pushing her up the hill. When she’s done with the loop she vomits. This run changes her life.

* * * * *

Nike holds an annual marathon just for women every October. It is now in its fifth year. Twenty six point two miles of running on San Francisco’s hills and the registration is luck of the draw because it sells out so fast. It’s actually a lottery for women to run it. And they willingly gamble. People wonder why we would put ourselves through the torture of running so far, let alone pay to run. What is the point? Here are a few: Night before race expo with lots of free things and female geared products. Smoothies at aid stations on race day. Mile six has a chocolate booth. Mile twenty has massage tables. And in between those, woman can pick up Luna Bars and Luna Moons, energy products geared for us. Every woman who crosses the finish line gets a Tiffany & Co. designed finisher necklace, Nike’s idea of a finisher’s medal.
Even without the perks the Nike Woman’s Marathon is an inspiration. It’s a race designed for her. This race takes the idea of a woman and combines that with strength. Something she will literally run away with after crossing that finish line. She doesn’t just run like a girl. She simply runs. Whether she’s wearing pink or not.

* * * * *

She plans to run October 18^th 2009— It’s one thing he’s given me— to prove that he didn’t take her future with him. The hills waiting for her on the golden California coast call and she envisions herself making it though mile five with a strong stride. Mile ten tired but still strong. Mile fifteen numb but moving forward. Mile twenty her breaking point. And then, like that day not far behind her, she remembers the sun breaching and mile 26 comes easily because she heard the race saying Come. Breathe, one two three. Run past it.

 

A Different Muse

She woke up and her eyes were caked shut with dried mascara. She was shaking.
As she went to wipe them away, the black, crusty pieces pulled at her lower eyelids,
popping
while they pulled away from the top layer. She thought she had washed everything clean last night but she must be crying in her sleep again.

Rolling over to ease the pain in her left shoulder she gasped at the gorgeous, unclothed man straightforwardly smiling at her. She suddenly couldn’t remember where she had been last night, but the wine glasses on the window sill gave in to her emotions. Sometimes a shattered heart will do that.
He lifted his hand and ran his thumb over her eyes—both of them.

‘You were crying in your sleep last night love,’ he spoke in a heavy Irish accent. ‘It hurt me not being able to comfort you.’

She thought, if only you could comfort me. Sex digs deeper, but at least you’re happy.
‘I must have had a dream,’ she replied trying to recall when and where she had met this man.

‘I don’t think so love, you kept saying a name and it wasn’t mine, but don’t…’ he trailed off when her lips opened to whisper apologies to this nameless man. ‘I know you’re hurting love, that’s what I’m trying to erase.’

What he—the name—didn’t realize was that he had given her stimulus to let someone else survey her toned torso and enjoy her legs.
The nameless one wasn’t a long term thing. Just something the other wasn’t.

 

When chocolate is all a girl has

Wine and Chocolate: A Lover

When I first heard the news, I had about six glasses of wine,
A crisp, refreshing Sauvignon Blanc to be exact.

I’d never really had wine before but the grandmother just kept pouring and pouring and refilling my glass until I couldn’t see straight but I put a smile on and tried to hide both the drunkenness and pain that was raging war within.

I’ll pull out the clichés now, it’s a broken heart poem.

Tonight I had chocolate cereal for dinner at 11:47 and 29 seconds.
European Coco Pops if you want accuracy.
See, I’m counting the moments I cannot sleep thinking that maybe, one day he’ll pay me back for every one that he’s extracted from my life. I hate chocolate cereal, it defeats the purpose. But then again, what purpose is there anymore? Why shouldn’t I fill my body with the iniquity of the cocoa bean and all of it’s sugary preservatives.

A Cadbury Caramel for lunch
A Galaxy Carmello for breakfast
Doesn’t cocoa have antioxidants, something to fight free radicals and eventually help your heart? It shouldn’t matter that all of the additives will rip my heart apart and clog my bloodstream with layers and layers of poisonous plaque that will eventually lead to my untimely death as my heart explodes.

He’s already done that.
At least chocolate doesn’t make me hurt.

 

On a roll…

Another poem…still working on the title, but it will come.

My breath catches in my chest
suddenly reminding me of the time when the wind caught the screen door and ripped it off the hinges during the storm two and a half years ago.

What brought this on was seeing a photograph hanging in the studio window of a mother cradling her new born baby girl and suddenly the womanly, hormonal, urge to birth a child came over me juxtaposed with the thought that he’s turned off the switch and I’ll never be able to make a child on my own.

I stopped by a Rembrandt exhibit yesterday and the first etching I saw was entitled “Death Appears to a Wedded Couple” closely followed by “Adam and Eve.” Paradox. The possibility of incomprehension at his words impels me to imagine that I’m ok. And then I have to force life into my body. To force my breakfast down:
two stales pieces of toast,
a chocolate bar,
and bitter, watery coffee.

I threatened it to stay down thinking that the repugnancy of the bile in the back of my throat might help me stop believing in the beautiful.

But then I remember what it felt like when he kissed me with his soft, strong hands curving into my jaw.
And I taste it.

 

A few new poems

Hey world,

I know I said I might not be writing much since I’ve been gone… and lo and behold, creatively, I haven’t been. But, if you’ve been keeping up on my travel blog I have been writing! I had a burst of creative juices today so I’m going with it. Literary Dublin has been good for me. They may be rough drafts, but at least I’m writing again.

Needle and Thread

I stumbled and vomited what was left of my soul on the sidewalk.
In the middle of a new day there was
nothing but the sound of my convulsions and the scraping of my knees as they hit the foreign pavement.

I found myself on my knees again, this time praying to the porcelain God afraid I wouldn’t be able to praise with the right strength anywhere else. If I hold my arm right, it curves around my torso holding everything in that desires to heave.
But my alter doesn’t respond.

Let the morning find me alive for it’s all I can do to stand.

Today wasn’t a one time thing.
I fell down yesterday too, hooking my shoe on the stairs and falling to my knees.
The bruises reflect a humbleness I should be having
but instead remind me of what is bringing me there. A broken heart and questions.

I reach down to lift my soul and then I remember it isn’t like a shadow.
I cannot sew it back together

Fallen Apple

The old stories used to be about how one day
He simply stopped holding her hand. Then
He stopped caring. Then
He stopped loving Her.

they used to hide under the table as if it would shut out the arguing, to help repress those memories from seeping into adulthood.

Over coffee the stories used to end with a worried moral: ‘I don’t ever want to be like that.”
Who was to know like father like son?

 

World Traveler

Just wanted to inform the world of yet another blog of mine. I decided it would be easier to keep all of my journeys in one place, so I created a travel blog. Check it out, that’s where I’ll be for the next five weeks in case I go on hiatus from here!

 

To Whom it May Concern – Letter from an Ireland bound girl

Dearest Lover, Family, Friends, Faithful Readers of Mine, and the Rest of the World:

This letter is finding it’s way onto my blog in order to inform you that I will be traveling to the Emerald Isle for a sabbatical in ten days. Ok, so in reality I’m studying abroad for the second half of my summer term but I like to think of it as a sabbatical and I’ll explain more on why that is later. I want you to know that as much as I love every single one of you and hold you dear in my heart, I am planning on being slightly selfish and enjoying the future five weeks of my time in Ireland. I will be blogging as much as I can to keep you up to date on my adventures, but I wanted to let you all into my head before I left.

This letter is in no way to appear sarcastic, satirical, funny, hurtful, or anything but serious, loving, and informative. As most of you know (because I can’t stop talking about it) I’m planning on studying abroad in Ireland come the month of July. Things have worked out so wonderfully with my graduating early that I am also able to fulfill my dream of traveling and studying some of my favorite literature and culture before I leave school. I am so very excited and thrilled to be doing this. The only problem is that it comes at a very transitory time of the year and it is only the beginning of my stresses. I know that right now there is a lot going on with each and every one of you, as is most days in this brevity we call life. We fall into the busy days and sometimes we don’t give enough attention to the people or things that we should. It’s hard to put our focus on just one thing sometimes and we become consumed with something, only to finish it out until the end leaving everything/one behind. At least I know I am capable of doing this.
I want you all to try and understand how much I love you and how much you mean to me. There is a myriad of things going on at this time in all of our lives and I am happy for each and every one of you, whatever direction you are heading in and whatever you are engaged in. If I seem a little preoccupied right now, or maybe as if I don’t care, please, please, do not take it personally. I am just a mess of a lot of things right now myself. My mind is going in several different directions trying to get ready for my trip, trying to work super hard and graduate, and trying to plan my wedding. Not to mention moving, a new job in the fall, looking for a job after the fall, and trying to become a good wife. If that’s not enough, trust me… my head is full.
Which is why Ireland couldn’t come at a better time. I know several people have asked me if I’m really ready to go or if this is turning out to be the wrong time because of everything else I have to do and everything going on with all of you. Though my head feels like it can’t take everything right now, especially something as wonderful as traveling, my heart tells me it is right. I want nothing more than to go to Ireland right now in this moment.
I am not a person who can relax and be calm for a long period of time. I stress very easily and usually for a long while. It is a flaw and a downfall. And I can always tell when I’m stressing because I can’t pay attention and I stress and get angry at the most minuscule things. Which is why I need this. I hate to do it, but for once in my life, I have to be selfish. Sometimes I take “me time” but it’s never really “me time” because I don’t relax. I might read for a little bit or go exercise or watch a movie, but my mind is constantly going and worrying about something else; it’s constantly moving right now about the fall and my future. Even with all the yoga I have been doing, I feel the stress in my shoulders. I carry everything there. I am tense in my traps and worried about the upcoming year and that is why I need to get away. I need time for me–to breathe, to enjoy, to relax, to get away from everything and everyone here. I need me back if I am ever going to move forward.
It pains me to do this because people (all of you) are important to me. Especially all that is going on in your lives! Even if you think I’m not that social, people are my life. You–my friends and family are so dear to me that I hate leaving you behind and I know I will be homesick because I will miss you terribly. But I have to do this. I’ve been given a wonderful opportunity that I’m embracing. I’m trying to let go of everything so I can enjoy it. That means no wedding planning, no thinking about school here, no thinking about moving or new jobs, and that means no friends or family and what you are doing.
Don’t get me wrong, I will write you, just maybe not letters or emails. I plan to blog while I am there and keep you updated with pictures but I cannot promise anything. I most likely will not be making any phone calls because it costs too much and is a hassle I don’t want to deal with. If I have time between classes and/or extra means to the internet between traveling I will email you, I promise that. But, if all I have time for is a blog, then a blog you will get. I’ll let everyone know once I get there and that I’m safe, but please don’t be hurt or upset if you don’t personally hear from me for five weeks. You all will survive. I promise. I know I will.
I’m getting ready to enter into a different part of life here in a few months. I’ll be a college graduate in the real world and a wife. It’s what I like to look forward too as the start of my life. I love my life now, it is wonderful, I’m just going to be entering into a new phase. A new beginning. And before I even attempt to do that, I have to breathe and prepare myself.
I’m looking at Ireland as a sabbatical (sab·bat·i·cal –noun any extended period of leave from one’s customary work, esp. for rest, to acquire new skills or training, etc. -adjective bringing a period of rest.) because it is bringing a period of rest into my life. Though it is only a few short weeks, I hope to come back renewed, energized, and ready for whatever life brings at me. I hope this experience changes me and makes me even more faithful, open minded, adventurous, and laid back, but also brings more perseverance, determination, and fun into my life. I hope Ireland turns my mindset to being ready for anything and open to immediate opportunities, helps me understand I cannot always control things, banishes worry, let go of stress, challenges me, makes me take risks, and teaches me to go with the flow. I hope it renews my strength and dignity and helps me to laugh at the days to come. (Prov. 31:25)
Ireland will change me. I know this. Please understand this too: in order for me to change, I have to have me and no one/thing else. I have to focus on my life and what is happening in the moment as it happens. I have to let go of everything that everyone else is doing, and all of my planning and stressing for next year. I need these weeks to be me and Ireland, and nothing else.
I will be different when I get back but look forward to it with me.

Until June 27th when I fly out of this country, take everything I do with ease. My mind is very preoccupied right now and until I am in the Emerald Isle, I will be like this. I am excited, nervous, scared, worried, and stressed all at once. These are a lot of emotions for a small woman like me to handle running through my body. This is a HUGE dream I am accomplishing and something I have never done before and I cannot wait to tell you all about it.
I do care about everything involved in all of your lives, I love you with my heart… I just have to be selfish for a mere moment.

I love you all and I wish you the most wonderful few weeks.
I’ll keep you all updated on my trip!

Caitlin

You’ve got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was.
-Irish Saying

 

Homecoming

If you were here I would kiss you a thousand times. She couldn’t get the line out of her head. Especially now as she was staring at the heavy, black, trunk taking up space in the middle of her living room.

It had arrived a few days ago, but Caity couldn’t bring herself to open it. She knew this trunk held pieces of the soldier he was this past six months. Everyday she carried his dog tag in her pocket to feel close to him, to feel a part of him. And now this, thing, sat leering at her as if held every piece of him. It teased her and she couldn’t open it. She knew that when she did pieces of him would flood out. She’d smell the sand he spent days living in. She’d feel on her hands the heat of the sun that scorched his neck. She was afraid of seeing blood stains on his camis not knowing if they would be from his enemy, or from his own flesh. Once she opened this thing there was no going back. He would be here with her, a different person than she had known when he left. And she wasn’t ready for that.

She wasn’t ready for the war torn Marine to spill over into her hands. She wasn’t strong enough on her own. No, Caity would let it sit there, leering at her, romancing her, until she was ready.

* * *

Caity laid there on the floor staring at the labels. All blasted six of them. Only two contained his handwriting, but it was one more way of being near him. At one point he had touched this. He had packed it. Jon was in there. She continued to study the labels trying to discover where this had been realizing that Jon’s stuff had traveled all over the world: Iraq, New Jersey, Denmark. So many checkpoints just to make it safely back home into her hands.

He knew she would unpack it, without even asking. He knew with every article of clothing, every book, every piece of him, that tears would fall from her eyes because he was home once again. At least part of him was. It seemed that as he got closer to heading home, the miles between them felt so much farther. He only hoped this piece of him, this plastic faceless trunk, could give Caity a little more hope until he was really there.

* * *

It stared back at her beckoning to be opened. She didn’t know it if was time, but Caity wouldn’t last much longer. She needed Jon even if it was just in pieces. As she moved to the floor to sit down in front of it yet again, Caity felt a sudden peace, as if God was telling her it was the right time. She cut the three zip ties and when she lifted the lid, there was no scent of him to wash over her. It was like any normal box. Except that he was in it.
The first thing she pulled out were his camis. Desert camis, his new ones. Never even having touched his body they still had the tag on. She told herself she wouldn’t cry, but when she saw the name stitched on the right hand pocket, everything was suddenly in her lap. Caity closed her eyes and breathed out slowly, trying to let her crying subside. She didn’t want to be too upset because Jon had told her to open this. He knew she would and so he’d packed a few surprises for her.
Caity was looking for one specific thing and she found it near the bottom of the trunk. In his canteen he had hidden a rock. Jon was always taking rocks from everyplace he visited to put in his fishtank. A living, tangible, memory and she had found it. The rock was a smooth, perfect circle shape. His fish, Victoria and Master Guns, would love it. To think that he had picked this rock up, 10,000 miles away and now here it was, back in America. The last thing to touch it was Jon’s hands and now it was sitting in hers. She kept digging.

She found the box she had sent him for his 23rd birthday wondering what he had kept in there. When she opened it, the tears came back. She found the card from her mother in there for him and a few tshirts. One from a run, a 5K he did while he was over there, and one from the half marathon. Not even a war could stop his passion. It never failed Jon that wherever he was he had time for running. It was in him. The bottom of the box also held a couple of soccer shirts, one red and one green. She figured one was for her and she couldn’t believe it. He would do something like that.

The last things Caity went through were his books. Her passion. She found a few he had taken to study and one of hers, Captivating, which she didn’t even know he had. But that was Jon. Always wanting to get to the hearts of her. Alway wanting to get to the heart of God. The cover was sandy and worn, she could tell it had been through a lot, but so had he. Flipping through the notes in her margin, she realized she had been there the whole time with him. Never wavering, just as he hadn’t. And now she had the proof she needed to stand strong. Her heart could keep going. Soon he would come home. Soon they would find him.

 

books

Did I mention I found one? A new book that is. And I’ve created a currently reading page in hopes of keeping my mind happy and settled in a book.

Only trouble is, the book I found was just that good. I need another one already.