An Ending…


I end this year thankful…

For courage
And triumph.

For failure
And revelations.

For heartache
And overwhelming joy.

For people lost
And others found.

For scars
And for stories
And for the hope of something new.

Cheers to you my friends and thank you for hanging with me through my scribbles and ramblings. May your 2015 be full of magic and stories and all the glorious things that make us beautifully human.

Chelsey Whitlow


This is Life


Sorrow tore open this spirit;
Hope made bearable the wounds.

Sorrow stole the dreams of youth;
Hope made possible resurrection.

Sorrow stripped away innocent eyes;
Hope made real redemption.

Sorrow and Hope….

This is life.

Chelsey Whitlow

Under Covers


I would stay buried here, beneath these covers.
I would forever hide away these pieces of light.
I would choose solitude and lonely nights and the safety of anonymity…

If not for this incessant pull,
This nagging, relentless ache,
This illogical hope that there is something more…

More of me…
out there.

Chelsey Whitlow




She would have been Sixty-One today. Still so young…and already seven years gone.

She would have been proud of the courage found in these thirty-something’s… Choosing not to dwell on the broken fear of those twenty-something’s she left me in.

She would have read her only child’s first novel and gone on and on about that one part where they play her favorite song.

She would have begged for every last detail on that guy I met three Sundays ago and then told me I needed to wear more green. Always more green. Redheads are supposed to wear green she would say.

She would have insisted on the old ornaments and the colored lights on my Christmas tree. And the Star on top, instead of the Angel.

She would have requested popcorn shrimp and pineapple pie for dinner and Poinsettias on the table.

She would have reminisced about tutus and sugar plums and how much I always hooted and hollered when she would put my hair in a bun.

And she would have sang Silent Night in that beautiful smoker’s voice of hers; recalling the little girl who never could quite fall asleep without it.

Every once in a while, on nights like this, the would-haves visit, cloaked in nostalgia and days not tainted by disease,.

And a girl remembers how much she misses her mom.


Chelsey Whitlow