LJ Idol week 22- The Straw That Stirs The Drink
She was born with a puff of orange hair and wild eyes. I knew she would be someone magical, someone who forged her own path through life. “Poppy. Her name is Poppy” I said to the nurses as they cleaned her off.
Her cries were deep-rooted; they came from the depths of her, and they came often. I was able, always, to soothe her, to meet each need as it arose. She was everything I was not - strong where I was weak, light and orange where I was dark and brown. She screamed for what she wanted, I sunk into the background. As she grew, it seemed all that I disliked in me became opposite within her.
As she aged, I allowed her to make her mistakes, watched as she flitted from idea to idea, boy to boy, breaking hearts and leaving all those around her speechless. She was a beautiful child, and that beauty grew into something altogether mysterious as she aged. I loved to look at her, to stare into her bright green eyes for hours on end.
At 22 she left home, set off on adventures I could never allow myself to imagine. My wild child, smart and brassy, full of bravado and sass. Postcards came often, every truck stop, every gift shop. She was independent, yet she loved me as deeply as I her. These postcards became the highlight of dull weeks, each story became a film in my mind. Stories of parties where she danced around in tulle, stories of hikes through darkened woods.
She continued this way, exploring and learning, for years. She didn’t visit home again until she was 30, older and slightly more calm. As she floated through the door, bags dropping around her, I couldn’t contain my happiness, my joy. I drunk in her scent, held her like a child once again. This woman, this piece of me, finally back home where she belonged.
We’d stay up late, her telling me of Paulo, and Olli, Henrich and Gustav. Men with exotic names that she met on untamed beaches. I’d drink in each story, bask in the warmth she created. I felt the sand at my toes and the ocean at my back. I craved adventure too, but fear and doubt kept me locked in my little town, in my little house.
I turned 65 this year, my daughter threw me a party full of cream cakes and umbrella drinks. I longed for something I couldn’t express, until the moment she handed me my gift. A beautiful wooden box, the color of strawberries, thin and light. There was a carving on the front, two women, one older, staring past flowers. Inside, a card that said simply “Drink up life. Drink until you are content”
And under that card, a set of plane tickets. Tickets with no return dates, tickets to see the world. One for my daughter, and one for me.
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I had no intersection partner, apprently I smell or something!