personal

a forty-minute love story

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

I have forty minutes left before my work day ends and I’m free to live life for a measly five hours. What can I do in forty minutes? Well, I suppose I can tell you a story.

The first time I saw his face, other than the photographs I’d studied diligently on Facebook, I had already fallen for him. It was a warm November night. A Saturday. He drove from Atlanta. We had never met, not in person. We had mutual friends of friends of friends. We chatted online. Then via text message. And eventually had lengthy nightly phone conversations, reminiscent of freshmen year of high school.

We talked about things we liked and didn’t like. Why we were single and what we were looking for. Who had broken our hearts. Whether or not those hearts were actually mended. We talked about growing up and screwing up. We talked about music and movies and books and the world around us.

We fell in love over the telephone. And then he showed up on my doorstep.

I was shocked at how tense he was. I’d had the luxury of two strong lemon drops to ease my nerves.

He stayed with me that weekend. Eventually he calmed down. Became the person I’d spent every evening with on the phone.

He kissed my forehead in a bar that night. It was our first kiss.

The next day, before he had to leave, I walked him all around the most beautiful parts of Charleston. Historic architecture. Waterfront parks. Cobblestone streets. I kept trying to sell him on the city I’d come to love so much.

Do you like it? I’d ask over and over again. Yes, he’d say. Yes, it’s wonderful.

Before he left he took me by my waist and asked what happens next. I didn’t know what he wanted to hear or I didn’t know what I wanted to say, so I said, What do you mean?

And he said, I don’t want to leave here without you being mine.

And I thought, I was yours before you ever arrived. 

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diet

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

She let out a heavy sigh as she stared down at the black scale on her cool bathroom floor. She removed her wrinkled t-shirt and cotton shorts before stepping on. Drew in a deep breath. The scale’s dial whipped around quickly, then teetered back and forth before settling on a number.

And that’s it. That’s the number that defines her today. She’s seen it. She cannot change it. Today, that’s her number.

And it’s not good enough. It’s not low enough. It’s not thin enough. It’s fat. It’s bloated. It’s ugly. It’s big. But today, that’s her number.

She shakes her head silently as she steps back off and turns to start the shower. Tomorrow will be better.

She’ll shave her legs and curl her hair and line her eyes and powder her nose, but it won’t matter. That number has already taken hold. She’ll pick out her cutest dress. Pair it with trendy heels and statement jewelry. But the number hangs over her still. And she’ll examine herself in the mirror before she walks out the door, but all she’ll see is that number.

Every woman she runs into she’ll match up against her number. Every size two and extra small. Every time she’ll fall short. Her number is just too high.

Every bit of food she consumes she’ll weigh against that number. Will this make it worse? Is it worth it? What if I just skip this meal? She won’t enjoy a single bite. Food has become a number too.

And at the gym she’ll mount the elliptical and watch the calories slowly climb. Exercise is just another number. She’ll push and pull and sweat and gasp and think, tomorrow must be better.

She’ll drink water and pass on dessert and go to bed as her stomach growls and dream of a better number.

I know this girl. I was this girl. I see this girl still every day. And every time I see her, I want to tell her a lesson I learned long ago about numbers on the scale.

Those numbers do not define who you are. They do not determine your worth. They have no gauge on your potential. And they most certainly cannot assess your beauty.

They are numbers on a machine. A machine designed to tell you your relationship with gravity.

Stop looking at the scale and start looking at yourself. You are beautiful. And everyone else can already see it.

what we lose on battlefields

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

I could be getting the story wrong, but my dad once told me that his great-grandfather was mortally wounded in the Civil War. Not in a famous battle, but in some unremarkable episode of fight and fatality that took place in what is now suburbia in metro Atlanta.

The wound in his leg was deemed fatal. But when he did not die from it, he instead half-limped, half-walked the many miles back to his home, where he ultimately fathered my great-grandmother, which led to my grandfather, which led to my father, which led to me.

 

So on Memorial Day, am I grateful to those who have served our country? I am. To those who have pledged to give all they have and at many unfortunate moments, had to cash in on that pledge? Yes, I am forever grateful.

 

But I can’t help but think of all the lives lost. Not just the lives of our soldiers. But the lives of their unborn sons and grandsons and great grandsons. All those little beings that never came to be. All those lives destroyed before they could even begin.

 

When we lose our brothers and sisters to war, there is so much more we also lose. An eternal loss of people and dreams and hopes and destinies that will never be realized.

 

This Memorial Day, all I can do is give thanks to those who serve. Mourn the ones we lost. Grieve the lives that will never even begin. And pray, above all else, that there is such a thing as peace and we may find it still.

it gets better

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

I sat alone in my bedroom. Not under the covers, but on top of them. No lights. Only darkness. And I let the music surround me. A frail, breathy a cappella voice singing a lonely song. I turned it all the way up, as loud as it would go. Too loud. I sat perfectly still. And shut my eyes. Her sweet, gentle voice. So vulnerable and strong at the same time. It glided around me as I breathed it in. Filled myself up with that achy ballad. And I didn’t dare exhale.

It was almost as if she was in the room with me. Singing to me alone. A disillusioned lullaby. A forgotten swan song. And as it ended, I tightened my eyes – forcing them closed. Willing her voice to come back to me. Willing the notes to go on. Just one more verse. One final refrain. Wanting to hear that sound more than I wanted to see or dream or think or be.

That feeling. That forsaken moment. I lived that for days and nights and weeks and months and years.

That feeling.  That’s what it was like to miss you.

was blind, but now i’m free

~ GennaClaire ~ 12 Comments
two young girls in matching easter dresses
My sister and I wearing matching dresses on Easter morning, holding chicks from our baskets

Growing up, on the Saturday before Easter, I’d sleep with sponge rollers in my soft, blonde hair. It was awful. Like having rocks for pillows.

My mom would let me pick out a new dress from Penney’s or Uptons to wear on Easter Sunday. Sometimes a matching bonnet. Other times an oversized bow. My favorite Easter dress was a white fluffy number with a full skirt decorated with purple ribbons. There were tiny bells sewn into the inside hem, so I jingled softly when I walked.

We’d take family photos on the front porch before going to the early service. It was one of my favorite times to be at church. We sang hymns you didn’t hear the rest of the year. Lord of the Dance. The Easter Song. Morning Has Broken. Because He Lives.

There was always a warmth to Easter.  Sunlight poured through the stained glass windows.  The sanctuary, adorned with white lilies and rich purple tapestries. And even if you didn’t make it to church all year, you showed up on Easter Sunday.

That’s because it’s a day for redemption.

Because a year’s gone by and we’ve screwed up. We’ve done wrong. We’re failed and flawed. But on that day, on Easter Sunday, we’re reminded that we’re free.

And so we wear white and we wake up early and we slick back our hair and shine our shoes and we pile into church. And as we sing those hymns, as the organ plays and the choir sings, we let the sweet notes of grace and glory wash over us.

It’s a beautiful feeling.  When the burdens fall from your shoulders, the shackles from your ankles. When the weight you’ve been carrying is lifted gently away.

Easter reminds us how beautiful it is. To be forgiven. To be loved. To be set free. Forever.

the house that love built

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

Weren’t we supposed to love each other? Weren’t we supposed to rub noses and dance in our underwear?

What happened to us? To forever and ever? To first and always? To brighter skies and better days?

We took turns tearing it down. Ripping apart the house that love built nail by nail. Shingle by shingle.

Maybe we were angry. Or lost. Maybe we were scared. Maybe we were even brave. But before we knew it, we were broken. We were broken beyond repair.

Scars grew around our wounds. Twisted like ivy. Heavy as an anchor. And so we sank together to the bottom of the sea.

At the end, I looked at you and us and yawned. I looked at the past and the future and winced. So I called you up. And I let you go.

Weren’t we supposed to love each other? We did. To rub noses and dance in our underwear? We did that too.

Then we lit our love on fire and watched it burn to the ground.

But from the ashes, something else grew. Not for us. No, no, no. We were long gone.

But among the wreckage and the mess, the smoke and the  glowing embers, I learned a lot about love. I learned how to give. How to fall apart. How to hold back while still letting go. I learned love is neither a battle or a war. It does come easy. But it’s always hard work. I learned that even pain is beautiful. That the good memories are forever worth the bad.

There were six years. Many fights. Endless regrets. But I walked away with my heart in tact. And l have learned to love again.

my mema

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

My Mema. She taught me how to set the table. Forks on the left. Knives and spoons on the right. Every meal was served with a fruit tray and a vegetable platter. A pitcher of sweet tea and hot butter rolls.

My Mema. She left us last Friday.

She showed me the difference between camellias and jonquils and magnolias and azaleas. She pointed our hummingbirds and mourning doves and finches and buntings.

My Mema. She left behind her a husband of 61 years.

She made homemade peach ice cream and lemon icebox pie and homemade hot fudge. She whipped up pot roast and fried okra and Reuben sandwiches. She showed me how to make caramel icing. She chuckled as I complained about burning my cake layers.

My Mema. She left behind two beautiful, perfect sons.

Growing up, she kept plastic smurfs in the bathtub for the grandchildren to play with. When she moved to a retirement community, they took residence in her shower. She took us out to pick blueberries in yellow buckets. She watched over us as we swam in lake. She let me bring coloring books to church.

My Mema. She left five heartbroken grand children.

She would save bows and bags and ribbons and tissue from Christmas wrapping and reuse it year after year. She had a lovely, warm southern drawl, using words like yonder and reckon. She was tough and sensitive at the same time. She was smart and witty. She was polite, dignified, gracious. 

My Mema. I thought she’d be here forever. I wasn’t ready to let her go. All southern grandmas are special, but mine was perfect. My Mema was just perfect.  

a fantasy

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

It’s ten years in the future. 2023. I’m 36. A stunning 36, actually. I’m lean and athletic. My face has grown older, but I look mature, striking, sophisticated. My hair is long and dark. I’m wearing something chic. Trendy, yet classic. Modern and flattering. I’m at a local coffee shop waiting for an iced coffee with whole milk at the bar when you walk in.

I see you before you see me and recognize you instantly. It’s the chance meeting I’ve been half hoping for, half dreading since we broke up nearly fifteen years ago.

You eyes graze over me briefly as you scan the room, but only linger back to me when you realize I’m staring at you. You take a moment before figuring out how you know these dark, intense almond-shaped eyes. Why the curve of my nose seems strangely familiar. And why you’re hit with a wave of nostalgia when I run my fingers through my hair.

I wave, once I see you know who I am and smile, tentatively. You come over and I offer an unsure hug. You release yourself from the embrace quickly and step back taking me in one more time.

Time has shaped you also. Your hair is thinner and balding slightly at the crown. Tufts of gray are beginning to poke out around your ears. You’re still slender, muscular. But you seem shorter than I remember. Your face is free of wrinkles, but shows age in deep pockets of blue under your eyes. You look tired, perhaps a little worn.

We make small talk. Beginning and interrupting each other and stopping awkwardly and starting over. You tell me you’re married. Two kids – 4 and 6 years old. You work in insurance. Moved back to the Atlanta area after having your fair share of New York.

There’s a brief pause in the conversation and you ask how I am. Before I can even begin to answer, you quickly blurt out that I look great. I smile, knowingly. I did turn out well. Clearly the better of the two of us, I’d have to say.

I answer a few harmless questions before my coffee appears at the bar. I begin gathering my keys to leave and see your expression drop slightly. You don’t have to say out loud what we both already know to be true. I was the love of your life. Your selfishness and stupidity is what did us in. And you never found someone else quite like me. Or a love quite like ours.

I pull my sunglasses over my eyes and walk away satisfied with that encounter. I feel you studying me as I exit into the parking lot. Watching the subtle sway of my hips. The same toe-over-toe walk I’ve always had. I open the car door and look back one more time. Your stare lingers on me still and you raise your hand to wave goodbye. A somber smile crosses your face. I smile and wave back.

I know those grey eyes. I know the way they looked when they loved me. I know the way they looked when they hurt me. I know the way they looked when they were lost. And as I get inside my car, I know this look too.

The anguish of watching the best thing you’ve ever had realize you weren’t the best thing she ever had. And knowing she is much better off without you.

christmas reflections

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

In my house, as a small child, this was a special time of year. We had a tradition surrounding everything – from looking at Christmas lights on the way home from Christmas Eve service to saving all the cards and opening them at once around the dinner table.

We destroyed the house with an unsightly amount of decorations and stayed up late the night before Christmas, wrapping each other’s gifts and watching the Muppets’ Christmas Carol and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. We baked snickerdoodles. We ate turkey and ham.

We always opted for real ribbon instead of store-bought bows and we never used gift bags. Our stockings got more indulgent with each passing year, but we never failed to get at least one pair of SmartWool socks and a new headlamp.

In the morning, we had a fire burning in the fireplace before we walked down the stairs to lavish amounts of presents around the tree. We played Vince Guaradli Trio as we opened gifts, turn by turn. And we all hated the idea of the moment passing by too quickly, so we all tried our best to slow it down.

In more recent years, our Christmas traditions have had to evolve. My parents, now divorced, live in separate states, as do I and my sister. My dad has remarried and this year, his new sister in-law – fighting a losing battle with cancer – is living with him also. My sister and I both have boyfriends and our time is divided among our houses and their own.

Time is limited. But we still come together. Sometimes we meet in hotel rooms and sometimes our stay is too brief. Sometimes there is no tree. Sometimes there is no fireplace. But this is the season that brings us together. Despite obstacles and distance and challenges, we find each other. And for a moment, we’re together.

And on this Christmas Eve, a moment together is the greatest gift of all.