365 Days (Part 2) | ✓

351. Roller-coaster

351. Roller-coaster: Write about the ups and downs in life.

1. I am born. The joy of coming into a world, the promising newborn scent, the ache of existing.

2. I am orphaned. The muted squall of a babe, wrapped in foreign blankets, in the cold, abandoned air of an orphanage.

3. I am adopted. The shock of people unknown to me, the hesitant way I wrap my arms around new necks, the first time my barely articulate voice says "Mommy."

4. I am a little girl. The way my hand clings to my father's, the primal yells as me and my younger brothers play outside, the days spent in the fields helping Dad.

5. I am a teenager. The widening eyes as I observe the changes of life, the bubbling mirth of my best friends, the fluttering in my abdomen from the way he looks at me.

6. I am married. The way we look at each other, the embarking on a new journey, the quiet protest of my parents.

7. I have a child. The strangeness of a protruding belly, the screams of childbirth, the awe at the perfection of flesh and unfocused eyes lying in my arms.

8. I am a mother. The aching of droopy eyes, the way their small bodies fit against my side, the sacrifice of myself for these tiny humans who are half me and half the man I love.

9. I am divorced. The blurry devastation of knowing he left my bed for hers, the alternating dullness of rage and numbness, the sinking down low to live with my parents again.

10. I am struggling. The temptation of death, the way my baby cries when I leave him with my mother every day and go to work, the feeling of paying for mistakes not mine.

11. I meet him. The way he looks in his cowboy boots, going on a date I'm not really sure is a date, seeing him birth a horse and clean up my boys' puke without flinching.

12. I try again. The fear of more heatbreak, the crispness of his suit, the vows we say in my parents' house.

13. We seal our bond. The panic on his face when I give birth, the gentleness he exudes at this small child, the way our baby looks like him.

14. We almost lose it all. The way he returns home with no job and a briefcase of his personal effects, seeing the cute little car he bought for me in better times reclaimed, the nights we spent praying for a miracle.

15. We become a team. The long days spent working jobs we don't like for the sake of those we love, the way he doesn't understand how to discipline teenage boys, the way we almost sleep in different rooms over tiling the bathroom.

16. We lose a child. The way the police knocked on the door, the way I wanted to die too, the many days spent crying.

17. We go on. The late night movies, the stress over trying to teach people how to drive, the thousands of home cooked meals.

18. We let go. The tears at the high school graduations, the first empty bedroom, the quick grins when their name appears on my caller ID.

19. We live. The changing of the seasons, the working and resting, the laughter and the arguments, the worries and carefree days.

20. We always hope and work for better days.