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Quote by Jerri Chisholm

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Escaping Eleven

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Jerri Chisholm

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“I opened my eyes to find a pair of eyes the color of matcha infused with lightly roasted cocoa beans, and framed by incredibly long lashes, peering down at me. From memory, I knew that the frown on his face hid a lone dimple on the left cheek. A faint scar cut through his right eyebrow, making him look like he'd been in a knife fight. Some people had argued that the overall combination could be called hot, but I wouldn't go that far. Maybe he could be classified as cute, at best, but I certainly wouldn't be caught dead saying that--- at least not within hearing distance. He smelled as nice as I remembered, too, like citrus, spice, and sunshine. Him. The last person on Earth I had expected to see.”

ChildhoodEnemies To Lovers RomanceFrenemyHandsome Man
Book:Salty, Spiced, and a Little Bit Nice
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“You know what I love? The spaces between I love you. The tap of your fork against the plate and how my cup of wine clicks against our table. The scratchy voice coming from the radio in the other room. The quiet sound of your hand reaching across the table and whispering over mine. How your voice sounds like your mouth on the back of my neck. The soft murmur of our easy conversation. Between these quiet Tuesday night routines, following every comma and right after every pause for breath, is I, love, and you. In the middle of every I love you is a sink full of dishes, whisper of socked feet tangled in white sheets, and gentle kisses against curved cheeks. We lyric ourselves into the laundry that needs to be finished, into the ends of every smile that follows me repeating your name. We write ourselves into the grocery bags we need to carry, the cracks running up our rented walls, the sides of the bed we choose to drag up the sails of heavy eyed dreams. Like the spaces between our fingers, in the spaces between I, love, and you, we wait. The in-betweens have always been my favorite.”

LoveLifeInspirationalHeartInspirationHappinessRomancePoetryRelationshipsLove Story
Book:Ugly People Beautiful Hearts
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“By the time he planted his first seed and watched it bloom into a bright white daisy, Hart began to feel what he suspected his mom felt every time she was out in the gardens. The joy sprouted on the stem, and in his soul. While other boys were becoming interested in video games, or sports, or breaking rules, Hart got really into flowers. There were some areas in the garden where the flowers grew so high and bountiful that you could walk through them and get lost in tiny worlds. Whole colorful planets at his fingertips. To Hart, there was nothing like it. Cupping a sorbet-colored ball of dahlia in the palm of his hand, breathing in the musky-sweet notes of jasmine, watching the pollen-dressed bees buzzing in the fluff. The flowers made something in Hart's soul stir. Or settle. Or float. He wasn't sure what, but it felt like he'd discovered a secret that no one else knew about. That all you needed to feel perfectly in balance with the world were flowers.”

ChildhoodFlowersOne With NatureHorticulturalist
Book:Of Earthly Delights
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“As soon as I moved into the house, I planted a Discovery apple tree at the foot of the garden, by the yew hedge. A gift to the Norse gods for eternal youth, but in truth a nod to the apple tree of my childhood, whose canopy shaded the patch of phlox growing underneath, whose long stems and flowers the colors of sugared almonds hid a treasure trove of fallen fruit. Discovery is a scented apple, with bright, acid flesh that does not keep well. The small, slightly flattened fruit are best eaten straight from the tree. The flesh is white as frost, flashed lightly with strawberry pink. A child's apple. It is aptly named. Brought up as I was in a world of Dairylea, Ritz Crackers and Wonderloaf, the flavor and scent of these pale fruits were my first hint that there was something more interesting out there to eat. My tree, twenty years old now, awaits the lacework of soft-green lichen that covered the branches of my parents' and, infuriatingly, phlox has so far refused to grow beneath its boughs. It is the earliest apple, ripening in August. A fruit I think of not only as the herald of the apple season, with its Michaelmas Reds and Blenheim Oranges, its Cornish Honeypins and Ribston Pippins, but as the beginning of everything.”

ChildhoodDiscoveryApplesApple TreePhlox
Book:A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts
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