I have been to the edge and lived to tell the tale..
I have been to the edge and lived to tell the tale..
The moon loved them. Not because they were beautiful, or because they were perfect, or because they were perky, but because they were her darling daughters.
I wish I knew then what I know now - and still had those thighs!
The notes danced through the June air; Vivi could feel them dust her hair and shoulders. She could feel the notes enter her and settle deep into her bones.
In the crook of the crescent moon sits the Holy Lady, with strong muscles and a merciful heart. She kicks her her splendid legs like the moon is her swing and the sky, her front porch. She waves down at Sidda like she has just spotted an old buddy.
The very air they breathed was almost a juice.
It kills me to think I didn't spot her headed for the rocks. Friends are supposed to act like harbor boats-let you know if you're off course.
The words shot through Vivi's bones and blood and muscle, and her body relaxed, so that when her feet touched the ground they met the earth differently, as though they had found roots that reached deep down and anchored to something tender and undamaged.
It was the kind... of Southern women... who believe... that it is impossible to arrive in a new place without a pair of shoes to match every possible change of clothes.
There is the truth of history, and there is the truth of what a person remembers.
It's life. You don't figure it out. You just climb up on the beast and ride.
These are all I have. I do not have the wide, bright beacon of some solid old lighthouse, guiding ships safely home, past the jaggedrocks. I only have these little glimmers that flicker and then go out.
Life is short, but it is wide. Genevieve Whitman taught me that.
They wanted to rock, they wanted to roll, they wanted to feel the peculiarly human feeling of having a perfect night in an imperfect world.
Many people are more like the earth than we know. Maybe they have fault lines that sooner or later are going to split open under pressure.
This is a cardinal Ya-Ya rule: you must meet each person's eyes while clinking glasses in a toast. Otherwise, the ritual has no meaning, it's just pure show. And that is something the Ya-Yas are not.
Of all the secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood the most divine was humor.
True love is not a crock, but patriotism is.
A scent that disturbs me and delights me. It smells like ripe pears, vetiver, a bit of violet and something else- something spicy almost biting and exotic.
Once the scent caught me on the street in Greenwich Village. I stopped in my tracks and looked around. Where was it coming from? A shop? The trees? A passerby? I could not tell. I only knew the smell made me cry. I stood on the sidewalk in Greenwich Village as people brushed by, and felt suddenly young and terribly open, as if I were waiting for something. I live in an ocean of smell, and the ocean is my mother.
What does my smile look like now? Vivi wondered. Can you reclaim that free-girl smile, or is it like virginity- once you loose it, that's it?
At the beauty of what she had stumbled onto, at the fear that something terrible would happen because she was not vigilant enough. She cried at the fear of something so good that she would not be brave enough to bear it.
Our Lady of Cheribim Chit-Chat.
What they don't know is that I went over the edge years ago, and lived to tell the tale.
Because I miss them. Because I need them. Because I love them.
Say there is no truth. Say there are only scraps that we feebly try to sew togethr.
But all she wanted to do was lie in bed, eat Kraft macaroni and cheese, and hide from the alligators.
She leaned down and smelled the skin at Connor's shoulders right at the spots where, as Martha Graham might have said, his own wings might have been attached.
But who has time to write memoirs? I'm still living my memoirs.
She used to say she could taste sleep and that it was as delicious as a BLT on fresh French bread.
Friends are supposed to act like harbor boats-let you know if you're off course. But it ain't always possibleà
She's smiling that smile they smile before they grow bosoms.
His tall, lanky body had the wrinkles of sleep, and he smelled like cotton and dreams.
Sidda sank down into the wide flannel embrace of their bodies, and she rested. For a moment she died a little death, they died it together.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories