I’m Just Rags Please Hold Me Nightly Musings 1224 words

I’m Just Rags, Please Hold Me

“I’m just rags, please hold me.
I’m just rags, please hold me.”

When I was in the fifth grade, I played the lead role of a ragdoll in a story about toys no one wanted because they were old and tattered.

My ragdoll character had a torn teddy bear and a tarnished jack-in-the-box for company. During one portion of the play, we did a round. I chanted these words while doing hand motions I still remember today:

“I’m just rags, please hold me.
I’m just rags, please hold me.
I’m just rags, please hold me.”

Sometimes, in the night, when everything is quiet and I’m alone with the horrible memories of all the messed-up pairings I’ve allowed into my life, those words come back to me.

These days, I realize with each passing moment that time and chance slip a little further away.

I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m simply thinking about how very prophetic those words sometimes turn out to be.

Tonight, as I sit here, the only sounds are a train in the distance and a lone goose honking in desperation, apparently trying to find its mate.

I find I’ve a lot in common with that goose.

These feelings never last long. My life is, for the most part, a good one.

It isn’t fancy like a lot of people’s lives. I don’t go on one vacation a year, let alone multiple ones. I don’t have money for day trips, spur-of-the-moment movies, or dinners out with friends who decide on the fly to go somewhere. I cannot even keep up with most of my neighbors.

I know these things are no one’s fault but my own.

I had choices. I did not always make good ones.

I could be angry with my parents and say, “If you’d let me do this or that…”

But that’s all bullshit, and I know it.

Once I got out on my own, I could’ve done a lot of things differently. I could have made other choices, followed different paths.

Had I done so, though, I wouldn’t have my daughter.

Never mind that she doesn’t want to be part of my life. She’s alive. She has six beautiful children who are my grandchildren, but more importantly, they’re the family line. So, we go forth.

For good or ill, I’m damned proud of that.

Proud of her.

I could be angry with her for keeping my grands from me. I could be bitter because I have no photos to show off in the chat room when everyone talks about theirs.

That’s not who I am.

Not anymore.

I simply don’t see how being angry and bitter makes anything better.

Do I cry for them?

You bet.

Every time I hear a train outside my window, I think of my son-in-law. When I knew him, he worked for the railroad. I was so proud of him because he worked hard to get that job and had come so far.

I don’t know if he is doing that now, but that is how I remember him.

I remember my youngest grandson, too, excited when he, my daughter, and the rest of the kids came to my house for Mother’s Day week and he heard a train.

So sometimes, when I hear one passing in the night, I raise my hand and salute the train.

I’m sad for a bit.

Then I remember.

I remember the people I know I helped when I worked on 2-11. I remember the friends I made, including some I still have from my days at Volunteer Blind Industries. I think about all the experiences I would never have known if I hadn’t lived where I lived and done what I did.

Heck, I’ve written and published five books.

I’ve been published in anthologies, a weekly nature poetry magazine, and its print quarterly journal too.

Those things aren’t making me money, but they’re things I’m proud of.

You see, I learned something.

Money is nice. Money makes things easier. I’m not gonna turn it away if it comes to me.

But money is not where my blessings are.

That’s the truth.

When I put it all together, I just cannot regret very much.

Things are what they are.

I’m still alive.

So even though I sometimes still chant, “I’m just rags, please hold me,” and even do the motions that go along with the words, I also count my blessings instead of sheep.

Somehow, I always end up falling asleep content.

I didn’t make the money I hoped I’d make today.

I’d hoped to make enough to buy some books so I could do a book signing. I have my eye on a couple of places here within walking distance that I want to approach about hosting one, maybe even carrying my books on consignment.

But I did make a few dollars I didn’t have when I started.

I also came away with a new hoodie and an exquisite, probably antique candy dish, much like one my mother had.

Hers was supposed to have been mine, but someone else took it, just as someone took much of what Mom had.

I actually got nothing after my mother died.

At the time, I was working, having trouble with my daughter, and had just suffered a fall that knocked out three of my teeth. There was a lot going on. Somehow, all those things were simply gone.

So today, when I touched that candy dish, memory rushed through me in an instant. I had such a strong reaction to it that a friend—a friend who can sometimes bring me to tears with her kindness—gave it to me.

Just gave it to me.

Maybe that’s the thing tonight.

Yeah, I grumble.

I’ve made some messed-up choices. There’s been plenty of bullshit along the way. Although my life might be a meager existence in some ways, in others it is incredibly full.

That’s what I’m going to focus on tonight.

I remember a scene from The Ten Commandments, when Moses was choosing his wife from among the daughters of the shepherd Jethro.

Tzipporah told him how her skin and hair had been roughened by the wind and sun. She spoke of how she was not adorned like some beautiful, wealthy woman, but that her heart was good and loving. Her body was strong. She would do all she could to be a good wife to him.

I used to rewind my video over and over just so I could hear that exchange between them.

Talk about a love scene.

Maybe that’s part of what I’m thinking about tonight, too.

Maybe there is something beautiful about simply wanting to be seen for what you are—tattered places and all.

Not rescued.

Not repaired.

Not made into something shinier or easier to love.

Just seen.

And held.

“I’m just rags, please hold me.”

Well, I suppose some of this might not make any sense. Tonight, I just feel a bit untethered, so I’m rambling—as my blog says I’m wont to do.

Thanks for coming through this rambled, jumbled, crazy tale with me.

I’ve no idea whether I ended up anywhere.

But somehow, it feels good to have talked it out.

Maybe that’s enough.

And now, I’ll return you to your peace-filled night.

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Thanks for reading.

I’ll see you on the Astro Plane.

Patty L. Fletcher – Author and Content Promoter.

About Patty L. Fletcher

Updated November 2024

Patty L. Fletcher is a woman of passion and exploration.

She studies the art of manifestation and is a seeker of knowledge and the wisdom to know what to do with it when it’s learned.

To learn more visit: https://pattysworlds.com/about/

If you have made mistakes, even serious mistakes, you may have a fresh start from any moment you choose, for this thing we call ‘failure’ is not the falling down, but the staying down.

Mary Pickford