Amillia was born at 21 weeks.
She was 9 and 1/2 inches long and weighed less than 10 ounces.

Sometimes, when the world inside my head and the world outside my front door get complicated, I learn about something or someone that surprises me just enough to snap me back to the things that really matter.

Beautiful, little girl whose feet look like gummy colas: may your voice in the world be as strong as your will to live.

I don’t consider myself a superstitious person at all.
I think superstitions are a bunch of hooey.
I think superstitious people are weird and that they put unnecessary strains on their psyches.

And yet…I have my very own “Lucky Charms".

In my purse I carry my lucky stone, which was “blessed” by a Cuban witch to protect me.
It’s not a brick…it’s not like I can protect myself by throwing it at someone’s head.
It’s more a pebble than a rock, really.
But she swore it was for my protection, and it was free because she liked me, so I took it and I carry it with me.

Next to the stone, I have a tiny box with seeds from my sister’s garden, to never forget where I came from or where I belong.

When I change purses, I make sure to move those 2 things.
I’ll forget to move my wallet before I forget about those 2 objects.

In my sock drawer, I have my lucky socks.
My lucky socks have changed through the years (obviously), but they’ve all had one characteristic: they were hideous and didn’t match any of the clothes that I have.
I wear them when I go to my yearly “well-woman” exam, when I’m planning on asking the hairdresser to go wild with my hair or when I need a little extra cushion between me and the world.

For extreme cases, I have my lucky heels. They keep me 4 and 1/2 inches from the ground and I pretend nothing can touch me when I wear them.

The funny thing is that, looking back at my “luckiest” moments…I wasn’t wearing nor carrying any of my knick-knacks.

Eh, live and learn, right?

“Monkey” by Counting Crows

All dressed up
No place to go

Hey monkey, when you gonna show your face around me?

I know all the wrongs and rights
And I just want a little light to fall on me

Hey monkey, where you been?
This lonely spiral I’ve been in
Hey monkey, when can we begin?
Hey monkey, where you been?

Well I’m all messed up
That’s nothing new
Hey monkey, when you open up your blue eyes
I don’t know if I’m wide awake or dreaming

But all I ever need is everything

Just get the world off your shoulders
And close your pretty blue eyes
Hey monkey, what’s life without an occasional surprise?

Got nowhere but home to go
Got Ben Folds on my radio right now
I’m in trouble for the things I need
Hey monkey don’t you want to be needed too?

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

The post originally scheduled for today was about love.

It told stories about a lad I had.
Well, not exactly had.

It told about how at first he liked my accent, and how he gifted me an orange (and how I still keep dried pieces of that orange’s peel).

It told about one day when I was very sick and I fell asleep on the couch. When the night fell, he, not wanting to wake me, slept on the floor next to the couch, holding my hand all night.

It told about that time he cleaned my vomit and how he never mentioned one word about it.

The post said I don’t need Valentine’s Day to know I’m loved nor to tell the one I love that I love him.

I have now decided to erase that post and write this one instead, to answer a couple questions I was asked last night.

What does one do when love is gone?
AND
What do I have if I don’t have you?

Those were the questions and here are my answers.

To start with, you don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day.
You take it one day at a time and you don’t make big plans for the future.
You read a lot.
You hope a lot.
You sleep very little.
You twist events in your mind until they don’t make sense at all, trying to find the exact moment when you could’ve changed it all for the better.
You move slower and blame it on the cold winter months or on the summer heat.
You hope to be forgiven.

About what one has…I think that’s different for each person.
I have pieces of dried orange peel and a black and white photograph.
I have a tower of books waiting to be read, a brand new blanket my mother sent me, a room with the window facing west.
I don’t have much.

If I had to say the one thing we all keep when the days of wine and roses are gone, I’d choose memory, I guess.
At least that’s what the kitty sang on that Broadway show.

P.S. In a movie I saw a long time ago, a desperate woman wearing high heels, stands in the middle of a staircase, turns around and says something terribly long considering the circumstances.
She says: ¿Existe alguna posibilidad, por pequeña que sea, de salvar lo nuestro?

Is there any possibility, no matter how small, to save what we have?

And for the life of me, I can’t remember what her husband replies.

I guess it doesn’t really matter, because that too, must be different for everyone.

I was in the checkout line at the supermarket on Saturday.
I was ogling through the titles of the uncovered magazines* when suddenly something caught my eye.
The words “Mint Mojito” printed on a packet of gum.

Trying to dissimulate my excitement, I added a packet to my basket.

I waited until I was in the car to open it and pop a piece in my mouth.
OOOOH, YUMMY YUM YUM!!
It tasted exactly like the last mint mojito I had: fracken fabulous.

I decided that, from that moment on, Orbit Gum Mint Mojito would be my escape.
Why? Because let’s face it, I don’t have what it takes to become a real drinker, much less an alcoholic, since I keep forgetting my driver’s license every time I go out and they keep asking for it every time I want a drink.

Add the convenience of being able to carry the gum everywhere in my purse, and we have a winner.**

Since choosing O.G.M.M. as my escape, things are easier.

You want an example? I’ll give you one.

This is a transcript of the monologue that ensued in my head this morning, as my boss yelled at me: “As soon as I get back to my desk, I’m going to hit the bottle and forget everything you said to me! Yeah, I know I don’t have any actual bottles but you know what? I have gum! So there, back off, you son of a wenchie!*** You don’t own me! Freeeeedommmm!”

Yeah, I know.
I’m a badass.

*In Utah, all the “racy” magazines, i.e. Cosmo and Vogue, have their covers carefully concealed.

** Don’t bother to point out I should carry my license in my purse.
You won’t be the first one to have told me that and I will brand you as a very conceited person for thinking I will listen to you when I have chosen to ignore the 30 others who have mentioned it for years, before you even realized of my little shortcoming.

*** This is really how I swear.