Foolish Repeating

She loved him. God knows she love him more than life. She had put it all on the line to be with him . . . her career, her bank account, her home, her heart, her sanity. She thought she knew what she was doing. Still can anyone ever be sure? All she really had to base her actions on was the hope that he would be different . . . different from those before him. Oh yes, she had been in this place before. She had been here too many times before.

It really never seemed to matter what they did and who they were before they became a significant part of her life. They had good jobs. They took care of their families and business. They owned homes, cars, boats, you name it. They were men that had spent their lives living for and taking care of others . . . before her.

When she got them, they were always broken, hurt and in need of healing. Her arms and heart granted them the asylum they sought. She took them in and cared for them without thought of herself. Anything they needed, she provided. No cost too much for her heart to pay. Undoubtedly, this a karmic debt she was required to repay.

Still, time and heartbreak had taken their toll. Through the years she had developed soft spots, chinks in her armor. Each hurt taking longer to recover from. Each new scar fading more slowly than the last. She had known she was coming to the end of her optimism and resources. Still, she thought she’d take one more chance. Reach out for that brass ring on her last go round with love.

Face it, she wasn’t getting any younger and she was getting tired. Year after year of longing, loss and grief had left little to restore herself should this man not be the one to break the mold. This was her last attempt, her last try. She thought she knew what she was doing. Still can anyone ever be sure?

Patchwork Heart

Home, a pretty mythical place, if you ask me.  Should I click my heels three times and chant, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”  Would I be magically transported to . . . where?  Home is where the heart is.  Okay, let’s start there. 

 

My heart is a bit of a mess.  Years of abuse have taken their toll.  Payment extracted sometimes more than I thought I could bear.  I am, however, still here.  “Resistance is futile.”  Life is going to dish up a meal from my karmic menu and there are no substitutions. 

 

This usually means I’m going to have something I haven’t tried before.  None of us wish strife into our lives . . . or do we?  Nobody courts heartbreak . . . or do they?  My heart has been broken and mended so often that it must resemble a patchwork quilt . . . My patchwork heart.

 

So there’s nothing left, but to dig out the ruby slippers and see where they take me. There’s no place like home.  There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.  There’s no place like home……….