Various Surfaces, Kite Flying, and Another Word for Love

I've often had various places to put my writing. I have 2 livejournals (melijelly.livejournal.com & cornflakenurd.livejournal.com), a website (melijelly.tripod.com/melissasworks), and of course my trusty, yet seemingly sick, laptop which consists of microsoft word to hold my thoughts. So although I have all these places, it seemed fitting to become part of the blogspot world. Maybe I have some sort of compulsive disorder, the Lord knows I'm a little off in my head, but I somehow needed another outlet. Perhaps this one will be a little more... permanent. I'm still going to keep tabs on my other surfaces of distraction, but this one seems like it will be used more.

It's hard to believe that I'm no longer a teenager; I don't feel any different, but somehow I know that I am. And surprisingly so, when the clock rolled to that newfound adult-hood, I felt like I missed a small part of my childhood, one that was quickly filled by the love of my life. Every child has felt the joy and satisfaction of flying a kite, their own kite, but I was one of the unfortunate few children who missed that experience. While the children in my neighborhood lined down the streets with their fathers and threw their kites in the air, I was being shuffled back and forth between my parents, missing this opportunity. Don't get me wrong, I don't fault my parents (and my bonus father, as I like to call my stepdad) for allowing me to miss this experience. In fact only a handful of times I can account for my stepfather has attempted to include me in on this, however, weather forecasts has prevented this. So when I turned 20, I was pleasantly surprised when I opened a very thoughtful gift from Simon to find a kite. When the wind picked up and captured the simplicity of the kite, I knew at that moment that there was something special in this moment. Something I was glad that God had allowed me to wait to share it with someone that was truly as special to me as the kite flying.

I finally made a decision on the title of my book. "Another Word for Love." Although it took me months to figure it out, that title fits completely. Here's something:

I had never been to a funeral before Mary's, but I could already tell that when someone dies, food replaces that person. Everyone we'd ever known came to our home, arms full of casseroles, cheeses, desserts, and roasts. They brought hot tea and boxes of tissues, and shoulders to cry on along with arms to hug.
My mother cried the most, a constant trail of tears down her cheeks. Her sister Betty came and the tears got stronger. I only saw my father let a few tears go, but he stayed strong for my mothers sake, holding her shoulder as it heaved with every sob.
I was the only one who didn't cry; not one tear was shed from my eyes. I felt bad because of this, but for some ludicrous reason I could not cry. Even as I read my speech, and the letter Mary left for me; even as I watched my sister's casket lowered deeper into the grave; even as I was offered condolences by what seemed hundreds of teary eyed people, some I didn't even know. I did not cry. I ate.
I tasted every piece of food that entered through our threshhold, and when my stomach could not hold it any longer, I puked it all out and ate some more.
But I did not cry.