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)

It's getting better.

I am beginning to feel again.

What perfect timing, for I feel as though I am changing right along with the weather. The ice has melted away, leaving behind the sunshine, and the the occasional blanket of dark clouds and rainy days. Spring rain is perfect, is it not? I didn't mind the cold and the rain so much today, for I knew in a matter of hours, or a few short days, that the sun would come out again to open my mom's tulips in the front yard, to warm my sunburnt cheeks another day as I pedal my way to school in the mornings.

I had decided I would feel absolutely nothing.

And it worked, for about a month. I was not happy, nor sad, or angry, hurt, or excited, I was just ...  existing. My days emptily slipped by, smiling because I had to, finishing my homework because it was due, studying for my finals because it was scheduled into my planner, waking up because my alarm clock filtered into my ears.

I filled my life with distractions, carefully picking through my thoughts, avoiding any song, any place, any memory that might bring me back to the shadowed place I would never allow my mind to wander to. Every little thing I did was a distraction from one thing. It was truly a genius and to be quite honest, relieving plan.

Only one problem.

Somewhere along the way, my so called "distractions" began to hold weight in my heart. 

I laid on the tramp as the sun was setting one particular warm friday night, and watched the two boys mess around with the basketball, occasionally throwing it my way. And my heart suddenley ached as the realization hit me and fear washed over me. I love those boys.  I love the way that they play chess in the library for hours,  the way they kick the doors of the school open, the way that they do not consider the scored of minituare golf to be a joke: for it is a very serious matter. I love how I am treated the same whether I am wearing a pair of ratty sweats and a t-shirt, or a classy black dress and heels: it doesn't matter to them, I am Rachael.

 I had begun to feel again.  I cried last night. It's been a while. Happy tears though, knowing tears, growing up tears,  wise tears, the "I know change has come and it is time to accept it" kind of cry. 

I find myself smiling, not because I have to, but because I want to; laughing even. I can feel the pressure of somebody's backpack sliding across my arm in the hall, the cold wind whipping my hair across my cheeks, a still small voice somewhere inside me as Brother Casper teaches the gospel telling me "it is true rachael, I am here.", I can feel the rhythmic impact through my tennis shoes as I run on the pavement, the weight of my Aunt's seven month old baby in my arms as I held him and watched his contagious smile light up the room. 

I don't know. I don't know anymore. I don't know what I want, what is going to happen, where I am going. I don't have any plans at the moment.

But that is okay.

Someday, the walls will come down. I know they will. I refuse to rush anything, it may take me days, months, years, seconds, whatever. to heal, but that's fine, I have all the time in the world.

Afterall, I am only seventeen and a half years old. (I missed my half birthday again, can you believe it!?) That is a requirement for my man someday, he must remember my half birthday, because I never do...

I will fall in love someday. The real kind. The run and jump into your welcoming arms, kiss right in the middle of a crowd, through thick and thin, forever kind.   
And this time, it's gonna last.

For heaven's sakes, If I have learned anything, allow yourself to feel. Life hurts. It really does. We were never promised everything would be perfect, only that it would all be worth it in the end. Go somewhere very quiet and very abandoned, or heck, somewhere very public and very crowded and scream. yell. sing. something. Get it out. You will feel better, I promise.

Live your life. There is only one. And it is all yours.

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.