Ah the power of words. We can say too little or we can say too much. How many times have you stopped and thought about things you’ve said? I do it all the time. I say something, then I think – Whoa, did that come out right? Or, I think about something I could have said. I analyze a moment and question if enough was said. There are probably a million times I could have said less or I could have said more. I guess I’ll never know. This is an unsolved mystery of life I suppose.
I’ve always been a thinker. My mind goes a million miles a minute with thought. Mostly considering words, scenarios, and daydreams. I can get lost in thought in both good and bad ways. I imagine situations where I wish I had a second chance. I think about situations I wish I could never think of again. I like to think of the human mind as a beautiful mess of emotions, thoughts, and dreams. I know my mind is a beautiful mess of all the years of my life.
I love putting my memories on repeat and watching the scenes unfold. Like an old movie reel, each year has highs and lows. Little reminders of the things that have made me laugh and cry. Each memory that shaped me into the woman I am today. Sometimes these reflections come naturally and at random while others are provoked somehow.
The hymnal on my dresser reminds me of my childhood and how my Dad comforted my nightmares with a simple book of worship music. Have I ever told my Dad that I’m 35 and this book rests on my nightstand? Not enough has been said.
Sometimes it’s the face of a little girl in public that reminds me of a loss that at times 13 years later I still can’t wrap my mind around. There was so much unsaid that my heart still longs to say.
Other times it’s a song that reminds me of my Dad singing while he worked on the house. Messing up the lyrics and adding his own in for fun. His voice echoes in my mind. Does he know how much his voice has affected me? Not enough has been said.
In my dreams I often talk to my grandmother, I can see her face just barely. I tell her all the things she has missed since she passed away. I tell her each story of my life and wait for her reaction because I know she will be shocked. Other times I simply tell her I love her because I miss her so badly. The sound of my grandma when she sang while she cooked. Her sweet sweet voice it echoes in my mind. Did she know how much she meant to me? Did I say it enough?
The scar on right middle finger where my brother split my finger open while building in the yard with logs. My brother, does he know how much I look up to him? How I have molded my whole life with the idea that I want to be as strong as him? He needs to know this, it needs to be said.
Those tiny scars on my body. Little lines of growth. They remind me of my daughter, does she know how many years I’ve watched her grow with the joy and fear that only a mother knows? My daughters first words, each sweet little uh oh as she threw toys from her playpen. Her ears need to hear she is loved.
The sound of my husband’s voice. The healing on my heart, it is invisible, but my mind remembers. Does my husband know he undid years of damage left by another who claimed to love me? He should know, he deserves to know that his affection taught me to love deep.
The smell of Spring, when the highlight of my morning used to be seeing the Morning Glory’s open as I walked to the bus stop. The innocence of my young mind. Do I know how much I need to learn to give myself time to heal and room to breathe. Do I know I need to learn to forgive myself when I fail? There is so much to say, to be said, and to never say.