sueeeus

I love how he grasps my fingers with all his little might when he’s tired and settling down to sleep. He pulls my hand to his face and doesn’t let go.
My heart swells. It is indescribable, this feeling of being wanted and needed. I drink it up, breathe it in. It fills me up.
I know I shouldn’t indulge him with too much coddling. There is a balance that I need to find, where he can know he’s secure in me, that he is wanted and needed and loved, and where I know he’s developing self-confidence, trust, and independence.

It is difficult for me. I caress his sweet little face until he drifts off to sleep. I slowly pry my fingers away.

Truth is absolute. Perception is relative. Reality is relative. Reality is based on perception. After all, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Red is red and green is green, but to one color blind, green is red and red is green. It’s not truth, but it is reality. One does not lie, to say red is green. Yet, in truth, red is not green. Does truth matter, then, if it is perception and not truth that influences and molds how we think and who we become I maintain that truth matters. I seek after truth, but am impaired by reality.

Is today Friday I’ve lost track. The theme is Something Special.

These stories brought hope and light to the mind of a very young girl, who, until reading them, felt alone in the world where nobody, not even her parents, knew her, or cared to know her. These magical stories of love and light and the battle between good and evil filled her mind with wonder and planted seeds of self-worth. These stories changed her life.

Many years later, this girl learned that another young girl, who recently lost her father, loves these stories. This book will be lovingly and beautifully wrapped, placed in the post and sent to a faraway place, so it will be something magical for a dear and special child to open for Christmas.

Preparing for the trip was very difficult. There was so little time to get things together. Going through a lifetime’s accumulation of photos. Finding the sum of a person’s life is only 124 photos. Crying. Shopping for suitable ash containers. Creating a slideshow for the service. Finding the right music. Crying. Installing a DVD burner in my computer. Getting it to work. Packing up. Crying. It was emotionally and physically exhausting.
We had a display with photos and flowers.
Small boxes filled with his ashes for loved ones to take. The lavender baby blanket that all nine of us came home from the hospital in. Some letters he had written.
Ashes and flowers on the mantle.
And balloons with tiny tissue packets of ashes tied to the ends.
They were beautiful.
We released his ashes to the sky. It was a beautiful sight to behold. The winds carried him away. Up, up, and away.

When it’s my time, I hope somebody sends me off like that. Up, up, and away.

Exploration of Identity

There have been better days

Red. I love red. Any time. All the time. There is much red in my world.

1. A perfume bottle. My prized possession. Art glass. Which I love.
2. A crystal bud vase. A gift my dad gave to my mom then took back for ‘safe keeping’. She later gave it to me. I’ve always loved it, regardless of its twisted past.
3. Art. My departed brother’s daughter, one of the apples of my eye. Oil pastels on artboard.
4. In case I ever go too fast on the treadmill. Not likely to happen. Ever.
5. Purchased by the super-case.
6. The gem of the kitchen.
7. Bought to brighten the room the day after my brother died. Now withered and dead.
8. The love of my life.
9. A watercolor print from a local artist.
10. Mini-diaper bag.
11. Candles on a bookshelf.
12. A gift from my honey.

Theme: Exploration of Identity

This series is from my big European adventure, mid-September through mid-November 1994, which was in itself quite an exploration of identity. My college roommate and I reunited to spend two months on a whirlwind Europe Through the Back Door tour, from Ireland to Greece and many places in between.

“Disciple Scholar Nymph Thinker Victor Irresistible Feral Bad Ass Rejoicing Cloaked Traveler”

Dear Jack,
I’m sorry I didn’t come visit you last weekend. I was feeling a bit selfish and just wanted to stay in. I didn’t get out of my pyjamas all day. Or maybe all weekend, for that matter. You see, I lost my brother on October 27th. And learning to grieve is a new thing for me. Remember I mentioned it on the 29th, the last time I saw you. Remember I brought Boo in so you could see him in his Halloween costume, so it would brighten your day. It was all so fresh and I mentioned it to you, briefly. You didn’t say anything, though. Not a word. I thought perhaps you might say I’m sorry for your loss, or this must be difficult. But you said nothing at all (which kind of hurt my feelings). Maybe it was hard to hear about another losing his life, especially one so young, when you were confined to that miserable bed in that miserable nursing home, your own life slowly fading away. The aide came to feed you dinner, so we said our goodbyes. Where’s my kiss, you barked at me. It was too crowded for all of us in there. Me, Boo, the aide. I could barely reach you to lean over and kiss you. But since you put it that way… We had a nice visit, didn’t we You told me that I had rescued you. You were trapped in an airplane. You had been dreaming, you see, but I arrived in the nick of time. I’m glad I could be of assistance.

Today, I packed up Boo, even though I still don’t feel like getting out and about, but I know how much it brightens your week to have a little visit from us. And your neighbor Herman sure loves our visits too. He always asks if he can keep Boo.

I was walking towards your room and the nurse stopped me to ask who I was visiting.
My friend Jack, I said. Oh, I’m sorry, he passed away, she said.
When I asked. Last Saturday. The 5th. Around noon. He drifted away in his sleep.

So you see, you left us, on the day I was being selfish. I could have been there and held your hand while you drifted off to meet your maker. It’s the time I’m normally there. Instead, you were all alone. I’m sorry I missed you.

In a way, I’m also a bit miffed at that person you call a son, even though he’s not your son. He hardly ever visited you. He didn’t even bring you clean clothes when you needed them. The staff asked me about it and I said I didn’t know what your arrangement was, but that the so called son was responsible for your care. As far as I can see, he has done very little to reciprocate all that you have ever done for him, and I find that quite pathetic. He could have called me and let me know. He knows I’m your only friend here. I would have wanted to be by your side when they lowered your spent body into the earth. I know that every time we saw each other, we knew it might be the last time. And I’m glad you told me you weren’t afraid to go. You lived a colorful and eventful life, my friend. I’m glad to have met you.

But I’m sorry I missed you.

My friend Jack.
August 1, 1916 – November 5, 2005

O migraine, how I loathe thee
Thou vexation of cranial orb
Thy thund’ring rage woulds’t pummel
Yea verily torment
Even unto the spewing forth
Harken yonder, ‘tis sweet relief
B’neath veil of darkness still
With temper’d potion of ibuprofen
Yea, milligrams of one hundred times eight
And undulations, of rhythm most merciful
O King Kong, thou magnificent throne
I am at thy mercy
Thrice times the quarter hour
Thou hast brought me refuge
O soothing nectar of yon delicate leaf
Such comfort thou dost bring
O Ibuprofen! O King Kong! O Green Tea!
Thou art my truest friends indeed

But wait! There’s more! Okay, so the drinking receptacle also depends upon the particular beverage. If we’re talking about green tea, for instance, then this is my favorite cup. I found a pair at a thrift store years ago, and last week or the week before (everything happened last week, and the week before) I was emptying the dishwasher and dropped something on one of them and cracked it. WOE IS ME.

What pleases me about this cup, you might wonder Well. I’ll tell you. First, its shape. It is somewhat square (like me) and somewhat round (like me) and somewhat stout (like me). Next, it’s design. It is somewhat Asian (like me). And somewhat delicate (like me), yet somewhat rustic (like me). And, prior to the slippery dishwasher emptying incident, it was somewhat sturdy (like me).

Now it is somewhat broken (like me).