pure talent

i am so extremely excited to tell you all 
about my good friend courtney.

we went to the same high school,
but weren't really friends until college.
she has changed my life around
and has helped shape who i am today.
as you can see by her post..
her writing is absolutely amazing.

she has a way with words
and is one beautiful writer.


My name is Courtney. 
Most of my dreams involve making grammar corrections with red pen, 
and Art History references, though, 
the ones that take up the most space are set on a two people I've yet to meet.
 I am dream based. 
I live in my dreams, and dream of life. 
Not the fake kind--it's real. 
You know, the dense, frothy, rich stuff. 

Once, I had this dream: 

     This morning, I woke up to drool on my pillow and another's palm at the base of my own. Neither belonged to me, but finders keepers.
    I turned to him, sharp, hard, jerking my body from side to side, insisting he open his eyes. Two and a half minutes passed. No dice.
    So I stared at that face. 

    It was the same one I'd seen one hundred and twenty five thousand times previous to this moment. I'd looked at him mornings before, though found myself appreciating each of his details this particular morning. Each stubborn eyebrow, the way he hadn't shaved in days... the way that that, alone, adjusted my sails a few rounds tighter. I ran my long fingers across the roughest spots. Each poke stung me. His face winced, revealing the dimples that only came when the corners of his mouth uplifted. He was smiling now. Sleep smiling. I stared harder, hoping he'd feel it. Nothing.
    Admitting defeat, I flipped to my back, looked up at the ceiling, and reflected on the pervious night:

    "Go fish," he whispered, eyes narrowed on my poker face. Fish , I went. 
    "Your turn," I pushed. 
    "Give me your pair of farm animals." 
    "How do you do that? You know! EVERY TIME!" he was good at most everything. In basketball, he shot three pointers, he's read the majority of C.S. Louis classics, making him favored of my mother, and his natural genius for MarioKart knocks min out of the water.
    "Your turn," he smirked. I rolled my eyes and tried to believe I could win the game, when a curly haired got came bouncing down the hallway.  Immediately, his disposition shifted. The cards took a back seat to his little one as they shot down on the kitchen table, giving me the perfect opportunity to sneak a peek, though I focused in hard on this moment we were having, for I knew I might never get it back. All competition disappeared. His eyes were soft, quiet, sympathetic, arms outstretched toward our baby girl and the noisy curls that kept me astonished to know that she was mine. He said nothing, but lifted bier into his chest, cradling her head like he'd done all of her small life. I watched intently. Brushing the ringlets out of her eyes, he rocked back and forth, closing his eyes occasionally. I stood from my seat and dimmed the overhead lights. I walked over to them both, kissed their flush cheeks, and sent myself up the stairs.

    I turned as I caught the last landing, and paused to admire my sweet family in our kitchen, "Go Fish" cards sprawled out, some even beneath the legs of each chair. It was like a pretty painting of our imperfect life, though, the three of us fit together so perfectly, anyway. 

    "Good morning," he yawned as he kissed my forehead, "how'd you sleep?" His arms reached up over his head.
    "Oh, I do love you," I told him, "I do." 

You are guaranteed a lovely read.

Thanks Court! I sure love yah.

1 comment

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