You are the sunrise, go back to bed. I want to make you, laugh.

I was in a line at wall-mart by myself the other day.

(I prefer to shop alone, its very strange.)

Her head laid gently against a thick sweater, and she watched me through her dark lashes and brown curls, her tiny mouth pulled into a small pout.

The thick sweater she laid on seemed busy, her in one hand, brand new iphone 4 in the other, chatting to a friend. Acrylic nails clicking in rhythm against the counter. 

I smiled, and watched back, searching my memories for this time in my life, wondering how often my mom had held me in lines like these.

Her little pout faded.

Her face began to resemble something very dark, and very green.

Before I could take a breath to warn her clicking mother,

she puked.

All. Over.

You know what her mama did?
She threw her brand new white i phone
turned her acrylic nails towards the fountain
and attempted to catch the throw up.
She then knelt down in her thousand dollar jeans, throw up pooling around her knees, looked into her little brown eyes, and asked her if she was okay.
She hugged her and kissed her and cuddled her and promised her they would watch movies and lay in bed together until she felt all better.


It was beautiful.



Someday.
--Rachael Cherish 

I'm not one for Titles'.

It is plaid, emerald green and black.

My grandmothers.         Grandma Jo.

It comes just above my knees, and has a lovely neckline. A small amount of velvet lines the cuffs of the sleeve.

She has been saving it all of these years in the back of her closet.

The same green of my little dress lined the pale blue of the sky up the canyon today. Like God had taken a paintbrush and intricately drawn the jagged lines of the small trees above me, highlighting the last bit of what sky is left. The world is quiet there, my mind slips away from its frantic normality and ends up somewhere in the space above my head. I can hear myself breathe, hear the river make its way back to where it came from.

Like me.

I want to end up back here.

Where I came from.

But with Him, whoever Him will be. 

Hopefully Him, though.

I want a library, filled with literature. Filled with books of all shapes and sizes and categories. I want a tall ladder that swings around the entire room, and a window seat: please.

Thick blankets, warm lamps,warm undercooked chocolate chips, a fire that illuminates our shadows against the oak of the floor.

 I want a flower garden in the backyard. 

I want hidden doorways, and creaky stairs that wind in circles. I want to fall asleep in a fort, and wake up to wildflowers. I want to bring you breakfast: buttermilk pancakes and wheat toast with blood red homemade jam. I want to stay up all night with you listening to the rain angrily pound against the roof,our roof I mean. Want to watch it drip through the ceiling. I want to jump into the lake outback in a yellow sundress, and I want you to jump after me in your white shirt and tie.

I want you, mostly.

I want you from afar, as I watch you grow, and learn.

I want you in the midst of math problems and fan clubs.

I want you tomorrow as we eat raw chicken out of your refrigirator.

And I want you in your letters over the next few years.

And someday: i'd like a library,please.

Will you build me one?

I will kiss your toes, 

and you might kiss my eyelids like you used to in high school.

and who even cares? Because we will be grown ups. Twenty one maybe. 

You said we will dance in the kitchen.

"Oh, but you are lovely. Never, never change."

Merry Christmas. And Happy New Years, too.

Love,

Rachael Cherish.

(itwasnevermyintention)

Choking on salt water

I can trace the clouds with the tip of my finger.
You see, Time does not exist in my world right now.
As the clouds pass, ever so slowly, time is falling backwards.

Want to know how?
It is because I am traveling towards sunshine.
Sunshine, in fact, is not capable of leaving you if you are traveling 9,000 miles an hour towards it.

According to my specific calculations, I am, in theory, Sunshine.

Did you hear that? I am sunshine. 

It is tucked away into the ducts of my eyes, the scalp of my head, fitted into my ears; between my toes, underneath the turquoise of my chipped nail polish.

It is the first thing I see when I wake, and falls somewhere between my eyelids and the place where I dream every night.

I am the earth beneath a dirty old flip flop. I am the heat of friction rubbing against my bare skin and a wooden board, created to ride the ocean. I am tangled hair, tossed with sea salt and hotel-mint. I am the butter melted on a piece warm, thick, banana bread sold at a local shack, the cool ice finely shaved into a brightly colored paper cup. I am the chill that runs right down your spine when your skin is a deep shade of burnt maroon. I am a planted foot at the base of that board. I am a real smile, one that starts within, and reaches the brown of your eyes, before it ever intends to show its warmth near the mouth. I am all adrenaline as the energy of the water propels from behind.  I am the moment of silence, of stillness as a foot is planted at the base of the board and that awfully rare, feeling of excitement and accomplishment rushes into my throat and fills every inch of my unsettled stomach as I soar for my first time across a wave.I am the muted ache of the bones in the lower back as one sits huddled over the last few pages of a captivating distopian novel. I am the coloring of the fish, as the beady black eye scans the blue of my shaking flipper. I am a good nights sleep.

I am a hole deep within being filled with something that could be described to be very much what the English call; sunshine.

Today, I claim sunshine. 

Just for today, it's mine.

Oh, and Katherine Ellis?
Happy, happy, happy Birthday.
You are inspiring, and deserve every good thing that comes to you in this life.

Here's to you.

We were sitting on your porch one day. Remember? You told me if I ever had a blog, you would read it. I laughed quietly and swore to myself I never would. 

Well.

Someday, if you ever read this blog, 

This one is for you. 

Here's to you.

Here is to thick, creamy, raspberry milkshakes. Here is to the first letter I ever received; five pages of left slanted handwriting.  Here is to cuts on fingers, the warmth of your eyes, that night in the rain, a first beautiful, crooked smile on a yellow school bus. Here is to the boy in red vans, a mouth full of snickers, finding the courage to say hello. Here is to not feeling the rain as it fell onto us that night, to our first slow dance. Here is to every post of every American Fork High School girl that has written about you.  Here is to the metallic smell of two empty swings, the pressure of your fingers pressing gently into my hand as you processed information, to full moons, and 11:11. Here is to "what do you want?", "can i ask you a question?", "tell me a secret", "you feel like home"and "I will always come back, I promise." Here is to the missionaries, the two brothers that left their legacy for us. Here is to braces, and and growing up together; learning from each other. Here is to the twenty eighth, the twenty first, and March the fourteenth.  Here is to knowing every detail of ones soul one day,  and pretending you have never met them the next. Here is to the white house with the wrap around porch that will never be sold,  to the freckle right underneath your eye, the one on your arm, and my desperate attempts to count the ones on your fingers. Here is to nine crimes. Here is to the first time you ever hugged me, it took three months, remember? Here is to Abby, Jeremy, and Ema. Here is to your testimony of the Gospel of Jesus Christ through your example.  Here is to sunrises, sunsets, and talking until five in the morning. Here is to Oakland's silly face he made, to Madison running to greet me in the front yard.  Here is to kisses that mean something, taking a nap in a field, and a river in the canyon on a hot summer day. Here is to a library, with oak floors, thick rugs, warm reading lamps, and a window seat facing the sunset. Here is to people being worth more than what they wear. Here is to otter pops, hot fudge sunday poptars, blue gatorade, cowtails, lemon yogurt, and scraping barbeque for 7:25 an hour. Here is to the boy that taught me to slow down, to appreciate every little thing along the path,who taught me how to love.

Here is to not forgetting, but letting go, and moving on.
Here is to saving that small part of your heart. 

Here is to acting like it never happened.

Here is so saying hello in the hall.

Here is to falling in love when you are young, fearing absolutely nothing, diving in head first, and following your heart.
Here is to being willing to do anything for one person.
Here is to him not deserving you at your best, when he can't handle you at your worst.
Here is to building your foundation on what matters most.

Here is to the boy that deserves somebody, someday to match his socks, to wake up with him in the mornings before he leaves to work, to give him an attacking hug when he walks in the door, to make sure he wears thick wool socks and drinks lots of orange juice when he is sick. 

Here is to her, I am happy for her, and happy for him.

I really am.

I am happy for me, and feel blessed and grateful to be me.

Here is to Saint George with the girls this weekend, taking time to heal, allowing yourself to feel things, escaping another world through the pages of a familiar book, Young Women's modest fashion show projects, summertime, incredible friends, long trips, and my family.

Good Luck boy in the red vans,
thank you for being a part of my story.