Somebody To Love

Which is, in fact, one of my favorite songs in this entire world.

But we’re talking about my lovelife this early morning. I’ve been crying over it, reflecting over it, and just missing lots of people who’ve gone to the great beyond. How did it all start? Cleaning. I’m cleaning every drawer in my grandmother’s room, trying to figure out WHERE I put her crystal jewelry. It belonged to her mother, and I stored it away so it wouldn’t get lost. I stored it away SO well that it’s lost. Typical Roni.

So I go through EVERYTHING.

She has this box under her old sewing machine storage table that’s full of funerary effects, her mom’s death certificate, and the family bible. I go through the box, thinking the jewelry might be in there. It’s not, but I find all these funeral programs that I haven’t seen or missed out concerning info. In my free time, I update our family tree on ancestry.com. So I leapt at this chance to look at programs, read, and update.

I cry thinking about how I wish grandpa Fred were still here. Cry a bit for my mother, because it’s always a thing to want her here. Cry about my brother–he was stillborn. I guess I got upset about that, because I have always wanted a brother. My dad didn’t exactly tell me I had one until he had to explain what my maternal aunt was talking about. She let the cat out of the bag, and his face dropped having to explain to his nine year old kid. Years later, the ache is still there. Deeply for him, having lost his son first and THEN his wife–but also for me. Not remembering her, and never getting a chance to be around him. I have always wondered what it would have been like, knowing full well the horror of my dad’s years with his brother. Still, I wanted one.

So all that sadness and emotion washed over me as I sorted things out. Once I found some new papers and dates, I added them. When I started looking over all the marriages and births, I got emotional. Again.

I mean, yes it would be AWESOME to get that writing career going. To be able to pay off crap, get my credit in order, and blossom like the person I’m supposed to be. But I also want to be somebody’s wife, somebody’s mother, and SOMEbody’s reason. I don’t have to be the queen of the thing, but at least be able to take one last breath on this Earth, knowing that somebody loved me body, mind, and soul and felt like I was a good partner/spouse. I want that.

I want to matter to someone. Not to say “you complete me”, but rather “you compliment me” and “we compliment each other”. I want to inspire someone, make them feel loved and wanted. I want the same in return. Is that asking for too much? I don’t want it to be some sickening, perfect piece of white picket fence work. But, I want something real and authentic. Not just someone who sees me and uses me as a cure for their loneliness. I would never do that to someone. I know what it feels like to think you’re loved, only to realize you were someone’s piece of boredom killer, or someone’s cover for an inability to face their own lonely.

At the end of the day, I just want real love.

We don’t have to skip in fields of flowers, but it would be nice. We don’t have to hook arms and sip bubbly, but it would be nice. I would be just as happy chillin’ on the back porch, drinking Seagram’s and popping sunflower seeds. I just want the kind of comfort and happiness my aunt and uncle have–the simplicity of getting each other a snack before bed, the joy of doing for the other person, to hold them up.

And, of course, I want kids. I don’t have to have a huge van full of them. Give me three, four. I’ll take two, will have even one. Just let me have some kids. Some wacky, crazy carbon copies who’ll probably do all the nonsense things I did as a child, but have the intelligence I had to work hard to get. I don’t want perfect kids, ’cause goodness knows they’ll all probably be asthma machines like me….but I want my little family. Some rusty-butt boys, some sass pot lil girls….just more people to love and nurture.

I’m kinda feeling like in this town, that won’t happen. Everyone is either not interested, too old, too young, already taken, too nuts, or y’know “I just don’t date Black folk, but I’ll sleep witcha!”

Slim. Pickins.

But I’m here to work on myself, and get some actual money and finish college. But I’m also 30. Way past my family timeline starting at 24. We won’t dig into the past to discuss who was to be husband and father, but you can imagine my disappointment with myself when that ship not only sailed, but sank in the ocean of life ablaze with the tense BGM from Titanic in the background.

I guess reading all those eulogies with family members full of life and full of families got to me. Especially the big ones. My grandma would always say “there wasn’t much to do down there but have some babies.” Would that be so bad? Have some kids, keep the home up, garner some income? It’s hella hard work, but these same people were so deeply loved. These same people have these beautiful biographies written about them. They were missed. I want somebody to miss me.

I felt bad about that.

I know my family will miss me. If any of them are still alive by the time I’m ready to exit this plane, I know they will shed a tear or two. Why is it so important for somebody to love me, outside of blood? To have kids, to matter? There is a cliche explanation for it, but all I can say is that I have that desire deep inside of who I am. It’s not some kind of “thing” where it’s superficial–I just want to connect and feel like I am in somebody’s heart. As simple as that sounds, as optional as every part of it is–I WANT that option. I want to experience it. I have tasted faux love and purged it. I want authentic love.

I don’t need the moon, I don’t need the stars, and I don’t want rose petals at my feet. I don’t need to be worshiped, but a little adoration and excitement wouldn’t hurt. And above all else–give me sincerity….not crap.

I have seen true love in so many forms, and all I want is my turn in the Sun.

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