Oh, brother, why bother?

Sometimes I'm still not sure why I do this--why I write. 

I want to tell you stories.

Good stories.

The kind of stories that make you laugh when I laugh and cry when I cry.

The kind of stories where you feel the pain in your gut just like I did when that punk-head rat-tailed kid punched me in the stomach during class.

I want you to mourn the loss of love like I did;cry wet tears on dry sheets, smear your mascara and then pretend that everything is okay.

I want to tell you stories that makes you giggle at my naiveté just as I giggle now when I look back at year 14. (They say hindsight is 20-20. It can also be pretty damn hilarious.)

I want to tell you stories that make you scream in pain as I did when I gave birth to three children and subsequently to my self.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: I want to write on your bones. I want you to feel as though these stories are etched into your being so that you carry them with you as I carry them with me.

Because when I share my stories I find that they are stories already woven into the tapestry of someone else's life. Another part of the human quilt.

All I can hope is that the stories I share encourage you to share your own. To heal. To move forward. To go and live.