I have suppressed this post for quite a while now... I didn't know quite how to broach it. Women never fondly discuss aging.
I never believed that I would struggle with getting older. I have never been a great beauty, like my mother, so I was sure that I wouldn't mourn a loss. However, I recall quite clearly now something my Gran said years ago and it is so apt; youth is its own beauty.
I lived in my mother's shadow. She was tall and willowy. I was short with powerful thighs. She had thick auburn hair while mine was baby fine and dishwater blonde. She was curvy and vivacious. I was petite and reticent. She grew up in the deep south, where beauty was touted as a woman's ultimate gift. I grew up in Virginia with professors families who encouraged me to get a PhD. She spoke with a drawl. I spoke Latin.
I kept things simple. Minimal makeup, maybe lip gloss, and short hair. I embraced fashion but kept a safe distance from trends. In short, I tried not to compete.
Now I stand poised at the cusp of 40. Suddenly, I have almost been rendered invisible. As a young woman, I could walk into a room and acknowledge a few heads would turn... because of my youth. Now I am relegated to Mother status. The situation is not assisted by the fact that I am growing out my hair which now hovers just below my earlobes, thus clinching my Soccer Mom title.
And I am shocked. I miss the attention. I miss the position, the slight power a single young woman can wield. I have to buy my own drinks now, damn it. I don't have to fend off untoward conversation from leering young men. I don't command attention. And I am further shocked by who does... yes, youth is its own beauty. I watched this past weekend as my beautiful late 30 something friends sauntered around the bar and stared in amazement at how the men there were fixated by women who were only under 30, even though my friends were clearly more attractive.
So what is beauty? Can only the young hope to be considered beautiful? What about knowledge and kindness and understanding... all of those things that frequently accompany crow's feet.
Maybe it doesn't help that I am reading the Twilight series; all those eternally young attractive vampires and a heroine lamenting her impending age. I don't know.
Can you miss something you never had? I was never a beauty but yes, I was young...
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Conditions of Love
We picked up a new puppy on Sunday; a seven week old Boston terrier. He is instant family.
I had two noteworthy pets growing up. Each taught me invaluable lessons about love, commitment and tolerance.
Major was a German Shepherd. He was a beautiful animal... sleek and muscled. During our time in the country, before Sandy left us, Major and I spent spent better parts of entire days roaming the woods. We lost ourselves numerous times and stumbled our way home. We encountered snakes and spiders and most horrific, my own imagination. Major was a constant companion; a fierce protector and a loving friend. However, he was better suited to country life than city and when we had to sell our house in the country, because we could not afford it after the divorce, Major also needed to find a new home. I was devastated.
Shortly after we acquired Major, we got a couple of barn cats. I instantly took a strong liking to the gray tom cat. He grew up solid and being a cat, when we made the transition to town, he acclimated fairly well. Mr. Gray. Short, soft pearl gray fur and golden eyes. He was probably 15 pounds but light on those 4 feet. He was stealthy and low key, loving and gentle.
When the world ceased to turn and the sun refused to shine for me, Mr. Gray was never far. Times when I could not bear my own reflection and the din of others voices could drive me mad, the caressing purr of Mr. Gray would soothe me to sleep. His loyal affection never wavered. The cat had an uncanny sense of need and was readily there when crisis struck.
I went to college, graduated, lived life and moved on. Still, whenever I visited home, Mr. Gray provided both primary and undying adulation. I relied upon his warm acceptance and unbridled affection.
I was in my thirties when Mr. Gray was either hit by a car or struck by some predator. My mother found him curled upon our front step, his injuries innumerable. I have never mourned a death more than that of Mr. Gray. I weep as I write. Mr. Gray solaced me. When I could no longer communicate with people, that gentle gray cat would climb into my lap and give me purpose.
It has been said that animals provide unconditional love. I think that statement belittles animals. I think they recognize us, the good, the bad, the entire package. Theirs is not a blind love. They have the capacity, the enormous power to forgive... it is not unconditional; I have known animals that have recognized undeserving people and have demonstrated their disgust. The love of an animal, if you are worthy of it, is total. Total acceptance. An animal can look at a misshapen face and find beauty. An animal can forgive your neglect. An animal can sense your pain. However, an animal looks deeper than we are capable... they are better judges of purity. Animals love conditionally.... upon the condition that you are worthy of love. An animal's love can redeem you, but you must be deserving.
I have given my children this tiny expectant little bundle... it waits, for love, for learning, for life. And I wait for the precious lessons it will bestow upon my children. God bless the animals, great and small.
I had two noteworthy pets growing up. Each taught me invaluable lessons about love, commitment and tolerance.
Major was a German Shepherd. He was a beautiful animal... sleek and muscled. During our time in the country, before Sandy left us, Major and I spent spent better parts of entire days roaming the woods. We lost ourselves numerous times and stumbled our way home. We encountered snakes and spiders and most horrific, my own imagination. Major was a constant companion; a fierce protector and a loving friend. However, he was better suited to country life than city and when we had to sell our house in the country, because we could not afford it after the divorce, Major also needed to find a new home. I was devastated.
Shortly after we acquired Major, we got a couple of barn cats. I instantly took a strong liking to the gray tom cat. He grew up solid and being a cat, when we made the transition to town, he acclimated fairly well. Mr. Gray. Short, soft pearl gray fur and golden eyes. He was probably 15 pounds but light on those 4 feet. He was stealthy and low key, loving and gentle.
When the world ceased to turn and the sun refused to shine for me, Mr. Gray was never far. Times when I could not bear my own reflection and the din of others voices could drive me mad, the caressing purr of Mr. Gray would soothe me to sleep. His loyal affection never wavered. The cat had an uncanny sense of need and was readily there when crisis struck.
I went to college, graduated, lived life and moved on. Still, whenever I visited home, Mr. Gray provided both primary and undying adulation. I relied upon his warm acceptance and unbridled affection.
I was in my thirties when Mr. Gray was either hit by a car or struck by some predator. My mother found him curled upon our front step, his injuries innumerable. I have never mourned a death more than that of Mr. Gray. I weep as I write. Mr. Gray solaced me. When I could no longer communicate with people, that gentle gray cat would climb into my lap and give me purpose.
It has been said that animals provide unconditional love. I think that statement belittles animals. I think they recognize us, the good, the bad, the entire package. Theirs is not a blind love. They have the capacity, the enormous power to forgive... it is not unconditional; I have known animals that have recognized undeserving people and have demonstrated their disgust. The love of an animal, if you are worthy of it, is total. Total acceptance. An animal can look at a misshapen face and find beauty. An animal can forgive your neglect. An animal can sense your pain. However, an animal looks deeper than we are capable... they are better judges of purity. Animals love conditionally.... upon the condition that you are worthy of love. An animal's love can redeem you, but you must be deserving.
I have given my children this tiny expectant little bundle... it waits, for love, for learning, for life. And I wait for the precious lessons it will bestow upon my children. God bless the animals, great and small.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Mississippi, learning
You want to do yourself a favor? Go pick up a copy of The Help. It is the most jolting read I have had since The Bluest Eye. The author transports you to Mississippi in the 1960s and gives you the most startling, revealing account of race relations I have read.
For some inane reason, I have always been proud of being a Mississippian. I have always revered the genteel culture and the fabulous cuisine. I grew up, in Virginia, in what was strangely both a homogenous and integrated atmosphere; most of my immediate friends were caucasian, protestants but everyone got along with everyone else. At Reunion, I was particularly happy to see my African-American friends. Yet, I idolized the most wretched state in the union.
Mississippi to me is sweltering heat, sweet tea, cicadas, pecan tarts, tennis and cocktail hour. It's saying Yes Ma'm and dressing up for football games. It's caramel cake and Tabasco and cotton fields. And though I have read numerous books by many a great African -American author about the woes and abominations of Mississippi, I could never ignore the fact that Gran was Mississippian and therefore, it must be good.
The Help is a fantastically accurate book about the close and tremulous relationship between black maids and their white employers. I ache, reading those poignant words about loving little innocent babies and tolerating their racist mommas. The author nails the inflection, the accent and vividly describes the social strata. I should say here that it is written by a white woman.
My Mississippi has nothing to do with silver being polished, and country clubs, and monogrammed clothing cast off to the maid. I don't reflect upon separate bathrooms for different races or the tribulation between choosing between your white mother and your black momma.
Should I?
Yes. I have been wooed and silenced by the nostalgia. I have embraced the romanticism and ignored the ugly truth.
I have never asked Gran how she feels about African-Americans. I know that prior to the last Presidential race, she told me she thought Obama was a man of integrity, an intelligent man and that of all the potential candidates she supported him the most. Now my Gran is catholic, so I have a hard time believing that she would for a democrat, but I hope.
I cannot picture my Gran spitting on another human being or belittling someone because of the color of their skin; she is a lady. But is she open-minded? I don't want to know if she is tolerant; I want to think she is supportive. I want.
Can I love someone unconditionally if they are bigoted? Do I want to know if SHE is? I have never heard a prejudiced word from my grandmother; never seen an act that would make me ashamed. Is that enough?
Black people have been running the state of Mississippi since its inception... raising white babies, chauffeuring white men, picking white peoples' cotton. However, now Mississippi is being run into the ground. It is the poorest, least educated state in the nation and yet more Fulbright scholars come from Ole Miss than any other school.
The Help. I close my eyes and picture Hilda, my grandmother's maid for so many years until she had to go on dialysis. I picture the beautiful" high yellow" woman who made the best biscuits and sweet tea at my best friend Brooke's plantation. I know the Help. Now I know the suffering they went through to make my Mississippi possible.
Would I write this if I had spent all my years in Mississippi? Would I have the courage, or more importantly, would I have the insight?
I am like an embarrassed teenager shying away from her parents... I love being Southern and yet I am ashamed of what that connotes.
For some inane reason, I have always been proud of being a Mississippian. I have always revered the genteel culture and the fabulous cuisine. I grew up, in Virginia, in what was strangely both a homogenous and integrated atmosphere; most of my immediate friends were caucasian, protestants but everyone got along with everyone else. At Reunion, I was particularly happy to see my African-American friends. Yet, I idolized the most wretched state in the union.
Mississippi to me is sweltering heat, sweet tea, cicadas, pecan tarts, tennis and cocktail hour. It's saying Yes Ma'm and dressing up for football games. It's caramel cake and Tabasco and cotton fields. And though I have read numerous books by many a great African -American author about the woes and abominations of Mississippi, I could never ignore the fact that Gran was Mississippian and therefore, it must be good.
The Help is a fantastically accurate book about the close and tremulous relationship between black maids and their white employers. I ache, reading those poignant words about loving little innocent babies and tolerating their racist mommas. The author nails the inflection, the accent and vividly describes the social strata. I should say here that it is written by a white woman.
My Mississippi has nothing to do with silver being polished, and country clubs, and monogrammed clothing cast off to the maid. I don't reflect upon separate bathrooms for different races or the tribulation between choosing between your white mother and your black momma.
Should I?
Yes. I have been wooed and silenced by the nostalgia. I have embraced the romanticism and ignored the ugly truth.
I have never asked Gran how she feels about African-Americans. I know that prior to the last Presidential race, she told me she thought Obama was a man of integrity, an intelligent man and that of all the potential candidates she supported him the most. Now my Gran is catholic, so I have a hard time believing that she would for a democrat, but I hope.
I cannot picture my Gran spitting on another human being or belittling someone because of the color of their skin; she is a lady. But is she open-minded? I don't want to know if she is tolerant; I want to think she is supportive. I want.
Can I love someone unconditionally if they are bigoted? Do I want to know if SHE is? I have never heard a prejudiced word from my grandmother; never seen an act that would make me ashamed. Is that enough?
Black people have been running the state of Mississippi since its inception... raising white babies, chauffeuring white men, picking white peoples' cotton. However, now Mississippi is being run into the ground. It is the poorest, least educated state in the nation and yet more Fulbright scholars come from Ole Miss than any other school.
The Help. I close my eyes and picture Hilda, my grandmother's maid for so many years until she had to go on dialysis. I picture the beautiful" high yellow" woman who made the best biscuits and sweet tea at my best friend Brooke's plantation. I know the Help. Now I know the suffering they went through to make my Mississippi possible.
Would I write this if I had spent all my years in Mississippi? Would I have the courage, or more importantly, would I have the insight?
I am like an embarrassed teenager shying away from her parents... I love being Southern and yet I am ashamed of what that connotes.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Fear
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.
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.
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.
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