i watch his eyes, dark and brown, as he lights a match,

the flame reflects and i can barely make out

the caramel tint that is only visible in the sun,

the eyes that look at me so fondly when i tell him

how beautiful he is for the sixth time that day

i watch his hands as he hovers the flame

over the wick of the apple cinnamon candle

he bought for me because he knows its the

only scent i will burn in my room, the hands

that trace my skin while i read my favorite

books as he watches my expressions as if my face

is telling the story to him

i watch his lips as he blows the match out

and lets the smoke travel where ever it wants,

the lips that are always soft and eager to kiss me

when we stop at red lights or before we go

to bed or when he comes home from studying

at the park because i distract him with too

much affection, he doesn't have the strength to resist

As my health went downhill, excursions outside the house got fewer and fewer, then stopped altogether — except for visits to doctors and hospitals.

What did I miss most? Family and church. Fortunately, FaceTime connected me with my kids and grandkids as well as my church's monthly Men’s Breakfast.

Losing 50-pounds gave me confidence to go out. One of my first stops: Men’s Breakfast — a joyful day. Even bigger was my return to 1st Baptist-Elfers for a Sunday service.

Pastor Jim Prose’s message that day was “He Is Worthy Because He Is Holy,” from Isaiah 6:1-9, which includes, “Here am I! Send me,” words that resonated in my soul.

After the altar call, I went forward—not to become a Christian (did that in Vietnam) but rather to affirm the goodness of God in granting me grace to retreat from the brink of weighing nearly 400 pounds.

Why share this spiritual stuff? 1 Cor. 6:19-20 puts it best: “Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit...”

Bottom line: I was given the gift of a healthy body and squandered it. I’m hopin’ to help keep others from making that mistake.

Neat little girls dressed up in lace, waiting backstage for show to begin.

Time slows to a crawl for both the performers and audience alike as the anticipation builds.

A devilish pair of eyes watching from the back of the auditorium, waiting to behold a very specific spectacle. 

Beverly, one of the dancers can feel his presence despite the distance between them. It sends a chill up her spine. 

Sleep has settled over the city. The performance was a success and most of those involved as well as the spectators have retired for the night but two remain awake. 

Soft hands slide over sensitive flash.

Gleaming eyes shine in the darkness, locked onto each other as bodies move together.

The aftermath is wordless as always. Nothing needs to be said. 

Sometimes I pinch myself, I don’t know how we got here. You wore pineapple button-ups to work and I wore bags under my eyes and vodka on my breath. You showed me your only tattoo and always noticed my new ones. And one day I looked at you and I felt too far from you. I wanted to unbutton your pineapple shirt. I wanted to touch the freckles on the bridge of your nose. But most of all, I wanted to close my heavy eyes and pull your mouth to mine. I wanted nothing more, only to feel you. Only to be closer and sweeter and to touch every part of you. And I don’t know how we got here, but you are waiting for me at home. And sometimes, I could pinch myself.

Pour in a vial of passion,

The kind that sets hearts fluttering,

And leaves desires igniting

Afterward, add a ring of rose petals,

Their scent so sickly sweet,

Satin to the touch,

Like lust flushed skin

Next, mix in a bit of contempt,

Surely, you’ll need that, too

No couple always gets along

For good measure, pour in a sip of coffee,

Bitter and burning on the tongue

And finally, filter in a fraction of your soul,

Filled with liquid moondust,

And all sorts of strange, sometimes ugly things

There you have it, a truly mystical concoction,

Brewed with the purest of love

And illest of intentions

Desperation is the soap with which your mother once washed out your mouth. It always smelled so sweet, like cinnamon and lavender, and you’d always been tempted to take a little bite.... But now it’s really in your mouth, and you want to scream. It burns. It’s scratching your throat. Your teeth dig into the soft surface and come out with flecks that catch in your retainer. Will toothpaste get those out?

She removes her hand from the back of your head and pats you on your back. Hard. Then she takes the soap out of your mouth and puts it back where it belongs. “Don’t you ever say that nasty word again, you hear?”

She leaves the room, and you rinse out your mouth, staring at the battered bar of soap. It didn’t taste good, but it still feels good as you rub it against your hands. The textured surface now seems to add something to the sensory experience. You don’t want to stop. By the time the bar is gone, its bubbles swirling in the drain, your hands are bright red from scrubbing. You wish you had more soap.