Popsicle sticks on the stairs, pants on the kitchen floor. They say that I will miss this someday. I'm sure I will, but will I get there to miss it? Because, right now, the forest is deep and dark and endless and I can't see my way out of it. I suppose I shouldn't try to get out of it; journeys twist and turn and sometimes you stop so you can build a house of popsicle sticks to wait out the storms. That's the way of journeys.
I just didn't think I would be waiting out the storms in the actual storms. And sticky storms they are, storms of expectations and worries and fights over the window seat. Of spilled milk and lost friendships and fear monstrously huge, ones that won't be silenced with kisses and bandaids. Storms so wild, there is nothing to do but surf the tsunamis in boats of faith and adrenaline. And I do, I surf and sail and land in houses made of popsicle sticks and laughter and castoff socks and the detritus of weedy children, growing overnight to colonize my ordered garden of expectations and goals.
The metaphors mix, while I sit on the stairs and try to remember why I wanted it so ordered when the chaos colors match the carpet so much better. A moment of clarity in a messy glen in the deep dark forest that will stir me to despair again. Today most likely, with Freeziepop sleeves in the bathroom and underwear under the couch. How like life to be so beautifully inconstant and marvelously messy. How very like her.
