I've been afraid of a lot of things in my life... mostly of being alone. Sure, the usual suspects prey upon me as well... spiders, heights, needles. However, my real fear was always that I would end up some wasted old woman, barren and bereft, idling her days away with 99 cats.
I have been spared such a fate. A husband, two children, two cats and a dog on the way later, I am no longer afraid of spinster days.
My fear now is more bothersome and less solvable. I constantly fear that which I cannot control, mostly the fate of others. I cannot control the terror with which my Gran lives; I cannot control the cancer ravaging her body. Nor can I control the ridiculous circumstances which may force my mother out of business. And I am rendered useless in balming their wounds... no number of visits or plenitude of floral arrangements will stop Gran's cancer. My money will not stop the rain which has poured into my mother's shop and flooded her inventory, leaving a rancid trail of black mold. No amount of wishing or praying will make these ails cease; I know, I've tried.
Surely there is nothing worse than standing by and watching your loved ones suffer.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Dream
It was deep into the night and I awoke, dewy with perspiration. I had dreamed again of Sandy, Bio-Dad, my father. He was ashen, perhaps even dead, but speaking to me nonetheless. I woke with a start. I "dream" of him frequently... I quote dream because it connotes happy thoughts. I guess I should say I envision Sandy in my sleep.
I never envisioned Sandy while he was living. I rarely thought about Sandy while he was still alive. I frequently referred to him as Bio-Dad and called my stepfather my Father.
My dreams have always been vivid, colorful, breathtaking. I often feel I am more intelligent in my dreams than in reality. I speak different languages, quip gracefully, spar efficiently in my dreams.
If I had dreamed of Sandy while he was alive, perhaps I would've dreamed that he was the father I always wanted. Perhaps I would've dreamed of wreaking revenge upon him, for all of the angst and heartache he bestowed upon my family.
I don't dream about my fourteenth birthday, when I was given an ABBA cassette, even though it was mid-eighties and I didn't listen to ABBA, even though I didn't have a cassette player and the 99 cent sticker from the truck stop was still on it. I don't dream about my fifteenth birthday, when Sandy gave me a pearl earring, necklace set, marked 18-24 months on the box. I don't dream about the countless soccer matches, ballet recitals, dress rehearsals, homecomings, Proms, he never made it to.
I also don't dream about stage 4 cancer. I don't dream about the clinical trials or the chemo or hospice.
In my waking hours, I think frequently about that one cold saturday in March; a knock upon the door and I opened it to a smallish grayed army man wearing a beret. My surprise, my shock to recognize that there before me stood Sandy. Hadn't he seemed so much larger? He asked to come in because I was too stupefied to invite him. I quickly called Tim, begged him to come home from errands with the children as fast as he could.
He's gone, of course. No more awkward phone calls received in the late hours of night, no more inappropriate gifts for me or my children (a farting bear, really?) to acknowledge, no more tense introductions, no more disappointments.
Except, I am still waiting for an appropriate 15th birthday gift, the proud applause, the escort, the fatherly hug. Except, I'm still reeling, stunned that Sandy could die.
I also dream of sticky sweet summer days in the Delta with the unrelenting sun beating down and the taste of Gran's cooking and the comfort I feel in when Tim envelopes me with his big 6'4" frame. I dream of my children and what I can offer them. Dream... not envision. I dream about those things.
I never envisioned Sandy while he was living. I rarely thought about Sandy while he was still alive. I frequently referred to him as Bio-Dad and called my stepfather my Father.
My dreams have always been vivid, colorful, breathtaking. I often feel I am more intelligent in my dreams than in reality. I speak different languages, quip gracefully, spar efficiently in my dreams.
If I had dreamed of Sandy while he was alive, perhaps I would've dreamed that he was the father I always wanted. Perhaps I would've dreamed of wreaking revenge upon him, for all of the angst and heartache he bestowed upon my family.
I don't dream about my fourteenth birthday, when I was given an ABBA cassette, even though it was mid-eighties and I didn't listen to ABBA, even though I didn't have a cassette player and the 99 cent sticker from the truck stop was still on it. I don't dream about my fifteenth birthday, when Sandy gave me a pearl earring, necklace set, marked 18-24 months on the box. I don't dream about the countless soccer matches, ballet recitals, dress rehearsals, homecomings, Proms, he never made it to.
I also don't dream about stage 4 cancer. I don't dream about the clinical trials or the chemo or hospice.
In my waking hours, I think frequently about that one cold saturday in March; a knock upon the door and I opened it to a smallish grayed army man wearing a beret. My surprise, my shock to recognize that there before me stood Sandy. Hadn't he seemed so much larger? He asked to come in because I was too stupefied to invite him. I quickly called Tim, begged him to come home from errands with the children as fast as he could.
He's gone, of course. No more awkward phone calls received in the late hours of night, no more inappropriate gifts for me or my children (a farting bear, really?) to acknowledge, no more tense introductions, no more disappointments.
Except, I am still waiting for an appropriate 15th birthday gift, the proud applause, the escort, the fatherly hug. Except, I'm still reeling, stunned that Sandy could die.
I also dream of sticky sweet summer days in the Delta with the unrelenting sun beating down and the taste of Gran's cooking and the comfort I feel in when Tim envelopes me with his big 6'4" frame. I dream of my children and what I can offer them. Dream... not envision. I dream about those things.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Barcroft
When Gran and Grandaddy started to age more rapidly, I thought they would retire to the Coast since my Uncle Jon and Aunt Susan and most of their kids lived there. I thought they would enjoy being surrounded by grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I thought the easy clime would be especially welcome, given Gran's knee replacements. So I was bewildered when they chose to move back Clarksdale, 6 hours north yet decades behind.
The Delta has spawned many a great poet and plenty of beauty queens. Deltans have fostered fantastic food and have an innate sense of style. However, Clarksdale's days of glory have long since passed. There are faded reminders in the crippled downtown; shops shuttered and streets abandoned. I couldn't imagine why my grandparents would leave family for this backward burg.
My family of 4 lives in respectable home in a small community. The house is "cozy" and the address is in the less illustrious south side of Arlington, not the pedigreed North. Truth be told, I rather loathe the house. It is a 1950s ranch with all the charm of a block of wood. We have painted and papered and even added on but the house remains a ranch.
So why am I about to embark on a rather pricey endeavor and add yet it again to this less-than-dream home? For the same reason my grandparents moved back to Clarksdale; we have found our niche.
Our friends come from varied backgrounds and strata. Some are athletic, some are artistic, some are complex and some are carefree. All have children who fall somewhere in ages between my own. People frequently ask me if I wish to return to the small southern town in which I grew up and where my mother still resides. I have no intention of doing so. It is a charming, cerebral little town with much to offer... but I have been there. In my own little village of Barcroft, I have carefully cultivated a group of friends whom I cherish. We have shared births and deaths, weddings and divorce. We have cooked for each other and tended children and cheered our athletes in their races. In our most trying times, as struggling parents, we have bolstered one another and turned the time into one to be cherished. I feel understood and appreciated.
It is a gentle community, one of sweet families and happy memories. My house, though humble in origin, has given rise to many a great occasion. I could love another house more but without the close camaraderie of my neighborhood friends, the beauty would lose its luster.
The Delta has spawned many a great poet and plenty of beauty queens. Deltans have fostered fantastic food and have an innate sense of style. However, Clarksdale's days of glory have long since passed. There are faded reminders in the crippled downtown; shops shuttered and streets abandoned. I couldn't imagine why my grandparents would leave family for this backward burg.
My family of 4 lives in respectable home in a small community. The house is "cozy" and the address is in the less illustrious south side of Arlington, not the pedigreed North. Truth be told, I rather loathe the house. It is a 1950s ranch with all the charm of a block of wood. We have painted and papered and even added on but the house remains a ranch.
So why am I about to embark on a rather pricey endeavor and add yet it again to this less-than-dream home? For the same reason my grandparents moved back to Clarksdale; we have found our niche.
Our friends come from varied backgrounds and strata. Some are athletic, some are artistic, some are complex and some are carefree. All have children who fall somewhere in ages between my own. People frequently ask me if I wish to return to the small southern town in which I grew up and where my mother still resides. I have no intention of doing so. It is a charming, cerebral little town with much to offer... but I have been there. In my own little village of Barcroft, I have carefully cultivated a group of friends whom I cherish. We have shared births and deaths, weddings and divorce. We have cooked for each other and tended children and cheered our athletes in their races. In our most trying times, as struggling parents, we have bolstered one another and turned the time into one to be cherished. I feel understood and appreciated.
It is a gentle community, one of sweet families and happy memories. My house, though humble in origin, has given rise to many a great occasion. I could love another house more but without the close camaraderie of my neighborhood friends, the beauty would lose its luster.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The fruit of Love's labor
My earliest memories are of Gran. Gran in her Diane Von Furstenburg dress and blue spectator heels. Gran with the western Texas sun setting behind her. Gran bringing my mother a bag of treats for the kids as we prepared to move from Clarksdale, MS to Spartanburg, SC.
Gran was fifty years old when I was born. I was not the firstborn grandchild or even the first granddaughter but I was named for Gran. We had an immediate connection.
Through my harrowing adolescence, I took solace in my relationship with Gran. She was my refuge. I spent summers in the sultry Mississippi delta. I flew into Memphis and Gran and Grandaddy would be waiting for me. We would make the 90 minute drive through lush cotton fields and carefully planted pecan groves down to Clarksdale. Grandaddy was jovial, charismatic. Gran was reticent, careful with her emotions. Gran never teased or tickled. When I was child, she may have treated me as such, but she treated me as an inferior.
Through my college years, I made many poor choices but I never lost touch with Gran. I would frequently ask myself, "Would Gran be ashamed of my behavior?". And I have written reams about how much she has influenced my life.
My thoughts tonight are about how much I influenced Gran's life. Did I remember the birthdays? Did I call just because? Did I write enough letters? What is enough?
I think I all I had. I have loved Gran to the fullest extent. I have shared secrets and traded recipes. I have called to share funny moments and I have called in deep despair. I have listened and disagreed, respectfully. We made a promise; whoever dies first will contact the other... and I believe it is possible.
She is, to borrow loosely from Tom Wolfe, the full measure of a woman.
So how will I carry on without her? Certainly, I have surrounded myself with trustworthy, lovable people. I have carefully weeded those whom I thought might be poisonous...like Sandy. The irony is not wasted upon me; cancer will claim both my most estranged and most endeared. The two people who have left the deepest impressions upon my soul will be taken by the same despicable disease.
The heart is lyrical; there are many tunes to be played. Gran has given me the necessary chords. When she is gone, I will still need to play.
Gran was fifty years old when I was born. I was not the firstborn grandchild or even the first granddaughter but I was named for Gran. We had an immediate connection.
Through my harrowing adolescence, I took solace in my relationship with Gran. She was my refuge. I spent summers in the sultry Mississippi delta. I flew into Memphis and Gran and Grandaddy would be waiting for me. We would make the 90 minute drive through lush cotton fields and carefully planted pecan groves down to Clarksdale. Grandaddy was jovial, charismatic. Gran was reticent, careful with her emotions. Gran never teased or tickled. When I was child, she may have treated me as such, but she treated me as an inferior.
Through my college years, I made many poor choices but I never lost touch with Gran. I would frequently ask myself, "Would Gran be ashamed of my behavior?". And I have written reams about how much she has influenced my life.
My thoughts tonight are about how much I influenced Gran's life. Did I remember the birthdays? Did I call just because? Did I write enough letters? What is enough?
I think I all I had. I have loved Gran to the fullest extent. I have shared secrets and traded recipes. I have called to share funny moments and I have called in deep despair. I have listened and disagreed, respectfully. We made a promise; whoever dies first will contact the other... and I believe it is possible.
She is, to borrow loosely from Tom Wolfe, the full measure of a woman.
So how will I carry on without her? Certainly, I have surrounded myself with trustworthy, lovable people. I have carefully weeded those whom I thought might be poisonous...like Sandy. The irony is not wasted upon me; cancer will claim both my most estranged and most endeared. The two people who have left the deepest impressions upon my soul will be taken by the same despicable disease.
The heart is lyrical; there are many tunes to be played. Gran has given me the necessary chords. When she is gone, I will still need to play.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Defining Moment
"What do you do?". It seems like an innocuous enough question. And it generally is. However, for me, it is a loaded question, one which is a scathing judge.
I was prepared to meet this question head on at my reunion. People are curious and most venture out every morning to some building where they spend the majority of their time and collect a paycheck. I was never particularly good at spending that much time away from home. Even when young, I was borderline agoraphobic. I begged to be rescued from sleep-away camp and I cried myself to sleep the first week of college. I like familiarity.
For the last seven years I have hidden myself under the cloak of motherhood; I was staying home for my children. I had no such excuse when we lived in Austin and found myself coming up with snarky responses when posed with the question (I'm a social critic. I'm the CEO of the Gray Establishment). With both children now in school, I find myself in a precarious position again. People judge you, define you by your work. What if you don't work?
I used to tell people that I would've made a fabulous courtesan, before I realized that the term actually means "high class prostitute" instead of a dilettante. I can hold a fascinating conversation about Juvenal's Sixteen Satires and can wax poetic on Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Leonard Cohen but I am pretty sure I would have no clue how to function as a cashier at Trader Joe's much less trade stocks during the day at home.
When I was suicidal, my obituary sometimes came to mind. Macabre, I know. I wallowed further into depression thinking that the obit would be no more than two lines. When you're bipolar, you frequently define yourself as either "good" or "bad". I'm good now... on my meds, seeing my psychiatrist regularly. Should that be enough? Have I used my depression as an excuse so that I do not have to try to accomplish more than just healthy? I read that Madeline Albright didn't go to law school until she was in her fifties. So why, at 38, do I feel as though I have hit my plateau? Is being bipolar holding me back or is there a deep seeded fear of failure that I need to confront? What goal can I set for myself? Who do I want to be?
I was prepared to meet this question head on at my reunion. People are curious and most venture out every morning to some building where they spend the majority of their time and collect a paycheck. I was never particularly good at spending that much time away from home. Even when young, I was borderline agoraphobic. I begged to be rescued from sleep-away camp and I cried myself to sleep the first week of college. I like familiarity.
For the last seven years I have hidden myself under the cloak of motherhood; I was staying home for my children. I had no such excuse when we lived in Austin and found myself coming up with snarky responses when posed with the question (I'm a social critic. I'm the CEO of the Gray Establishment). With both children now in school, I find myself in a precarious position again. People judge you, define you by your work. What if you don't work?
I used to tell people that I would've made a fabulous courtesan, before I realized that the term actually means "high class prostitute" instead of a dilettante. I can hold a fascinating conversation about Juvenal's Sixteen Satires and can wax poetic on Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Leonard Cohen but I am pretty sure I would have no clue how to function as a cashier at Trader Joe's much less trade stocks during the day at home.
When I was suicidal, my obituary sometimes came to mind. Macabre, I know. I wallowed further into depression thinking that the obit would be no more than two lines. When you're bipolar, you frequently define yourself as either "good" or "bad". I'm good now... on my meds, seeing my psychiatrist regularly. Should that be enough? Have I used my depression as an excuse so that I do not have to try to accomplish more than just healthy? I read that Madeline Albright didn't go to law school until she was in her fifties. So why, at 38, do I feel as though I have hit my plateau? Is being bipolar holding me back or is there a deep seeded fear of failure that I need to confront? What goal can I set for myself? Who do I want to be?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The triumph of the Scarlet Hurricane
There are sometimes when I sit to write that I can barely breath as I viciously attack the keyboard. And then there are times like tonight when I know there is something to tell but drawing it forth is an epic endeavor.
This past weekend cannot go by without being duly noted in this blog. A 20th reunion is a celebration to say the least. Celebrating it with people you would still chose to befriend 20 years later, is astounding. Our "reunion" for a class whose school no longer exists, was pulled together in 45 days. Out of 105 graduates, thirty-something people gathered. David Martin flew in from the other side of the country. There were a dozen or more people who represented the hometown and then various others scattered along the eastern seaboard. We called and heckled those who couldn't make it. We reminisced and drank and laughed as though twenty years had passed in twenty minutes. There were athletes and preps, homecoming queens and drama queens, country boys and city girls.
I'm sure there were some who were curious about old flames, some who had something to prove, some who wanted comfort and some who wanted a good time. Reunions are a smorgasbord for the curious.
It was a lazy afternoon, cerulean and warm. The river drifted gently past as a handful of small boys rippled its waters. People mingled and hugged, repeated their stories endlessly, hoping for glimmers of understanding, reckoning.
The night settled amicably and the beer flowed. We gathered as we had years ago at a friend's house, whose parents were out of town. This time we bought beer legally and drank responsibly. We talked about children and housing markets, football teams and high school memories.
Our time is fleeting. The sun can set too early upon your best planned day. My past has not always been easy to look back upon but if I hadn't I would have missed the opportunity to reconnect with so much of what was good about my youth. That little high school of 500 in the Blue Ridge mountains housed giants. Its so good to know that they all still walk among us.
This past weekend cannot go by without being duly noted in this blog. A 20th reunion is a celebration to say the least. Celebrating it with people you would still chose to befriend 20 years later, is astounding. Our "reunion" for a class whose school no longer exists, was pulled together in 45 days. Out of 105 graduates, thirty-something people gathered. David Martin flew in from the other side of the country. There were a dozen or more people who represented the hometown and then various others scattered along the eastern seaboard. We called and heckled those who couldn't make it. We reminisced and drank and laughed as though twenty years had passed in twenty minutes. There were athletes and preps, homecoming queens and drama queens, country boys and city girls.
I'm sure there were some who were curious about old flames, some who had something to prove, some who wanted comfort and some who wanted a good time. Reunions are a smorgasbord for the curious.
It was a lazy afternoon, cerulean and warm. The river drifted gently past as a handful of small boys rippled its waters. People mingled and hugged, repeated their stories endlessly, hoping for glimmers of understanding, reckoning.
The night settled amicably and the beer flowed. We gathered as we had years ago at a friend's house, whose parents were out of town. This time we bought beer legally and drank responsibly. We talked about children and housing markets, football teams and high school memories.
Our time is fleeting. The sun can set too early upon your best planned day. My past has not always been easy to look back upon but if I hadn't I would have missed the opportunity to reconnect with so much of what was good about my youth. That little high school of 500 in the Blue Ridge mountains housed giants. Its so good to know that they all still walk among us.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Crap shoot
I am lucky beyond my wildest wishes. Don't get me wrong... I've put in some serious time. If misfortune builds character, I have more than a Shakespearean play. However, when I climbed out of bed at the luxurious time of 10 AM today, I felt like a queen. Both children in school and the day rolls out in front of me like a red carpet.
I know luck. Good. Bad. Luck and I have waged war. I've won airline tickets to France and I have been suicidal twice. I've had my heart broken, more than once, and I found the love of a lifetime. I can take Luck on.
Yet I am powerless when Luck goes bad for those I love. I have offered to help. I've given what I could but sometimes that is not enough. I have offered money, my home, my shoulder... sometimes, there is nothing you can give. Watching someone suffer is painful. Luck is a brutal mistress.
I was fifteen the first time I tried to take my life. My parents were separated, I was abysmal in school and pocked by acne. My mother was drowning in her own desperation and my brothers were young. I overdosed on tylenol. More of a cry for help than actual attempt? Probably. Yet I was thrashed by bad luck and wanted to end the pain.
I'm thirty eight now. Medicated, happily married with beautiful children and a lovely home. I am lucky. Lucky that I married someone with great health insurance to cover the outrageous cost of my medication. Lucky someone loves me. Lucky I lived this long to find love.
Tonight I feel especially lucky... and sad. I have dear friend who is not so lucky. She is brilliant and brave and she followed her dreams and they led her to a sad reality. Friends are harder to care for than family. They are squeamish about receiving aid, especially financial.
In addition to my brave, brilliant friend, I have a family member who needs a savior. She calls upon her God. I want to convince her that God choses angels... that maybe I am one for this person. Can I work a miracle for her?
Luck. Good. Bad. The roulette wheel constantly spins.
I know luck. Good. Bad. Luck and I have waged war. I've won airline tickets to France and I have been suicidal twice. I've had my heart broken, more than once, and I found the love of a lifetime. I can take Luck on.
Yet I am powerless when Luck goes bad for those I love. I have offered to help. I've given what I could but sometimes that is not enough. I have offered money, my home, my shoulder... sometimes, there is nothing you can give. Watching someone suffer is painful. Luck is a brutal mistress.
I was fifteen the first time I tried to take my life. My parents were separated, I was abysmal in school and pocked by acne. My mother was drowning in her own desperation and my brothers were young. I overdosed on tylenol. More of a cry for help than actual attempt? Probably. Yet I was thrashed by bad luck and wanted to end the pain.
I'm thirty eight now. Medicated, happily married with beautiful children and a lovely home. I am lucky. Lucky that I married someone with great health insurance to cover the outrageous cost of my medication. Lucky someone loves me. Lucky I lived this long to find love.
Tonight I feel especially lucky... and sad. I have dear friend who is not so lucky. She is brilliant and brave and she followed her dreams and they led her to a sad reality. Friends are harder to care for than family. They are squeamish about receiving aid, especially financial.
In addition to my brave, brilliant friend, I have a family member who needs a savior. She calls upon her God. I want to convince her that God choses angels... that maybe I am one for this person. Can I work a miracle for her?
Luck. Good. Bad. The roulette wheel constantly spins.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The price of life
The daily struggle. What am I, who am I, without this disease? What would it feel like to walk after being immobile? Your whole life spent on the sideline, watching the game, cheering for others. Yeah. It's like that.
Facebook is a marvelous tool. Frightening, but marvelous. As I dredge up old memories and old friends, I wonder, who did they know? Who was I? I remember so well riding in a bus back to school after a tennis match... Jim Osbourne was reading some poetry of mine that I had recently submitted to an English teacher as part of an independent study. Drewry Atkins queried, "Isn't it good?" and Jim said "It's all so depressing". But could I have written a word without being depressed?
I take 5 pills a day to function. Just one of my prescriptions alone would cost $450 monthly without insurance. It is no small feat that I sit here today pondering my existence. I estimate that it takes about $700 a month to keep me alive, barring food and drink. Am I worth it? Can you put a price on what you contribute to your family, your neighborhood, the world?
Recently I read that a Stay-At-Home mom would earn an income of about $150K annually if paid. What is the measure of quality? Do my children get $150K worth of a mother?
Facebook is a marvelous tool. Frightening, but marvelous. As I dredge up old memories and old friends, I wonder, who did they know? Who was I? I remember so well riding in a bus back to school after a tennis match... Jim Osbourne was reading some poetry of mine that I had recently submitted to an English teacher as part of an independent study. Drewry Atkins queried, "Isn't it good?" and Jim said "It's all so depressing". But could I have written a word without being depressed?
I take 5 pills a day to function. Just one of my prescriptions alone would cost $450 monthly without insurance. It is no small feat that I sit here today pondering my existence. I estimate that it takes about $700 a month to keep me alive, barring food and drink. Am I worth it? Can you put a price on what you contribute to your family, your neighborhood, the world?
Recently I read that a Stay-At-Home mom would earn an income of about $150K annually if paid. What is the measure of quality? Do my children get $150K worth of a mother?
Monday, September 14, 2009
The bitter side of blessings
The milestones of my life - graduating from college, my wedding, the birth of both of my children - are momentous and to be treasured. However, a deep love was instilled in me as a child and the memories are precious yet simple.
The taste of lemon chess squares, the sound of Gran's high heels on the sunroom's brick floor, the rose scented hand lotion in her bathroom. Gran. The deepest well of memories I hold, contains memories of Gran.
At three in the morning, I lay awake. I can feel Gran slipping away. Each time I call, she sounds a little more frail. She has lived with cancer now for 2 years. She is 88.
I cannot imagine not being able to hear her voice. She is my constant. I have never known a moment when I have not felt completely loved by Gran. I have questioned the love of my parents, my children, my husband, even God but I have never questioned Gran's love. Knowing her has been my blessing and losing her shall be my curse.
Friday, September 11, 2009
September 11
I am sitting at my study window watching droplets of rain run down the screen. The clouds are low in the sky and the day feels heavy. I am blinking back tears as I sit to compose. I guess not many people would begrudge a little sorrow and reflection on this day.
The day was crystalline in Austin eight years ago. I was lying in bed watching the sunlight filter through the crepe myrtles next to my window. It was after nine AM central time when my phone wouldn't stop ringing. I was twisted in the sheets my husband had left warm just a little over an hour before and reluctant to begin my day, irritated that it was punctuated by the incessant ringing of the phone. I picked up after the fifth call. Tim sounded excitable and I tried to gather myself to pay attention. He told me to turn on the TV; that the World Trade Center had been hit by a plane and that the general belief was that it was not an accident.
I turned on the television and called Gran. We watched together, 500 miles apart, as the towers groaned to the ground. I wept as I thought of the servers at Windows on the World, who had amused us on our last trip to NYC. And then the reports that the Pentagon had been hit began to trickle into the newsfeed. My heart seized as I thought of of all of our friends and family back in DC.
As many have, I have thought endlessly of those who lost their lives or their loved ones on that day. I know people who were directly affected. This day always gives me pause.
I think it is fitting today... the rain, the low sky, the darkness during day. I think we tend to speak a little softer on days like today. Afterall, it will never be again a day for crystalline skies.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
the next stage
a deafening silence
the empty house
the chores yawn out before me and I cannot be persuaded to act
I have longed for this
and now I am at a loss
what to do with myself
now more than the ever
the past creeps silently around me, chiding me for my failures
all that could be done, all the needs to be attended
and I sit, unhindered and yet uninspired
words needle me and blank screens menace me and my chop shortly at the keyboard
I am, am I
bereft
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