Not the VH1 type Flashback.....

You just never know.  You never know how.  Where.  Why.  These things you will never know.  So stop trying to figure them out. 

Be prepared.

For what?

Good question.  Everything.  Always.  Everywhere.

Driving home from a pleasant afternoon on a farm, my husband tells me.....

              I can't get that fucking smell out of my head.

  I can fucking taste it.

Stoically, I look ahead, focus on the road.  Breathe.  I look at him, in the passenger seat, seemingly normal, but his hands give him away.

I start running through my head.  Make the smell go away.  Its going to ruin the day, make it go away.

Go away go away go away go away go away.

Perfume! I have travel Ed Hardy in my purse, he starts digging.  He can't find it.

Rounding the long slow curve on country roads, to the left and then to the right.... surely a town is up ahead... a gas station.  Cough Drops!  Coffee!!!! We'll stop and get you that.  That will work.... 

No.  I don't want to stop.  Keep driving.  Get us home.

Again, focusing on the road, cool, and calm, and collected am I, while screaming bloody hellish screams on the inside.  Why won't you JUST FUCKING GO. AWAY.  ?????

I'll call a friend, she'll know. 

No answer. 

Its just he and I.  With a child in the backseat.  Everyone was calm, but on his side of the car, was an invisible rage building within him.  I know it.  I can sense it.

On my side of the car, rage, bloody fucking rage, fighting inside of me, taking over my head.

                                "Mom-ma?" 

The syllables from the back seat bounce around to the front off the windshield, land in my heart.

Yes baby....

                              "There were kittens in the barn, when you come to them, they run away.  One kitty, she stayed.  She was nice.  I could pet her....."

Yes baby, I saw that.....

And my heart breaking, realizing that forever I must be the one who holds this family together, to lick his wounds from war, to protect my children from those same wounds.  To be strong, and to lick my own wounds on my own time, because clearly, CLEARLY, there are tender fragile egg shell hearts all around me. 

And tonight?  Tonight?  Why, there is storm coming.