The Lady and the Milktiger

Once upon a time there was a Young Lady- twenty years young, to be exact- who was, for the first time in her life, going to live alone.  She was an introvert, so this wasn't as daunting as it might have been, and anyway several of her best friends were living in the apartments across the hallway and directly beneath her- but still, it was going to be odd, to come home to an empty apartment every day, and so she decided to get a cat.

She went to the animal shelter with her grandfather, and when they got there a small, pale orange kitten yowled at them, and reached out and popped the Young Lady's grandfather on the head: they took to one another immediately.  The Young Lady, however, diligently walked through the entire shelter and saw all the available cats and kittens, before coming back to the noisy one, who was still "talking" loudly to anyone who would listen.

It would be nice to have someone answer when I say hello, thought the Young Lady, and so she adopted the kitten, whom she dubbed "Milktiger Kink" for his stunted, kinked tail, and the fact that his markings made him look like nothing so much as a tiger cub who had been dipped in milk.

She called him Kink for short, and brought him home to the little one-bedroom apartment, where he did, indeed, fill it with noise.

Kink, as it turned out, was a bit of a hellspawn.  An evil, demonic hellspawn that gave the Young Lady (and others) a number of scars over the course of his kitten-and-young-adulthood.  But the Young Lady had claimed responsibility for his life, and that meant sticking with him, no matter how bloodthirsty and vicious he could be.

Fortunately for the Young Lady, Kink finally mellowed out around age seven.  How much this had to do with her moving him 3000 miles cross-country so she could get married, the world may never know.  But the fact remained that Kink eventually settled down into a perfectly reasonable, non-attack-cat, who shared his human with first a husband, then a second cat, then two rats, a dog, and eventually two small humans who could be a little hazy on the concept of "gentle"- and not a one of them was ever so much as bloodied.

And then one day, about eighteen years after he'd come into her life, the Lady noticed that Kink seemed to be... going blind.

And she knew that the Downward Spiral was beginning.

Or, rather, that it was Accelerating- after all, it had been nearly a year since they'd had to start giving him fluids, and changed his diet to support his kidneys.

So the Lady took Kink in for his annual check up, and the doctor confirmed what she'd feared: he had gone completely blind, his blood pressure was high, and his kidneys were failing.

There were things that could be done to extend his life, the doctor said- but the Lady chose not to do them.  Instead the Lady chose to bring Kink home so he could have a few final days of cheese and tuna and goodbyes to family and old friends.  And then, two weeks later, she took him back to the doctor for his Final Visit.

Because the Lady had claimed responsibility for his life, and that meant sticking with him, no matter how painful.

Pride (Words for a Memorial Gathering)

(As always, this is what I wrote, but not necessarily what I said.)

***

When I was young child, I felt sorry for the kids who had two "Grandmas".  How confusing it must be, to have the same name for two different people, always having to throw on a modifier to clarify who you were talking about.  I took smug pride in my possession of an "Oma", obviously the superior arrangement- just as German was obviously the superior ancestry.

Oma and I got along brilliantly when I was small: she taught me about important things like proper silverware etiquette, the best kind of bread to feed ducks, and how to behave in a sauna.  She would spend hours cooking and baking with me, or watching the dramatic performances I dragged my little brother into, or swimming with me in pools and lakes.  She would blow bubbles for me to chase, and we were special friends.  Our relationship was a simple one, and easy.  We loved one another.

As I got older, and began the transition into adulthood, it became apparent that I had a lot in common with Oma- and that commonality lead to, shall we say, friction.  Both of us smart, both of us strong-willed, both of us so certain we were right.  I struggled between wanting so badly for her to be proud of me, and not wanting to care at all what she thought.  She would bait me, and I would overreact.  Our relationship was a complex one, and not easy.  We loved one another.

I got older still, undeniably a woman by anyone's measure.  I brought Nathan into the family and I swear- I swear that was the best thing I ever did for my relationship with Oma.  She adored him, and her adoration of him made her think better of my decision-making abilities.  And I was more confident in my self and my life choices, less likely to take offense where none was intended, and more able to laugh things off.  Our relationship became mature, and good.  We loved one another.

And then, almost four years ago, I had my son, TLG.  Oma was getting older, more physically fragile- she couldn't play with her youngest great-grandson in the garden as she had with me, but she could- and did- admire him as he wore her own son's handed-down lederhosen; could give him little cars to play with; could blow bubbles for him to chase.  Their relationship was a simple one, and easy.  They loved one another- and it enriched my love for her.  I think seeing me as a mother enriched her love for me, as well.  Our mutual respect deepened, and we were proud to be called similar.

The last time I saw Oma, she was in a garden, surrounded by people she loved, and who loved her.  TLG was using Opa's cane as a wizard's staff, magically "turning" us into various animals.  Opa became an elephant, Nathan a newt- but then TLG turned to Oma (better known to him as Ur-Uma), and said, "Poof!  You're a lion!" and she smiled and laughed, tired from her recent medical ordeals, but delighted by his choice.

A lion, I thought.  How appropriate.  Not just because she was born under the sign of Leo, but because she was strong and fierce like a lioness, protecting and providing for her family, her pride.  Queen of her surroundings by sheer force of will- and the ability to roar when necessary.

She is gone now, which adds some complexity back into our relationship, but the love remains as strong as ever.

As does the pride.

Mini-Memorial

We are getting ready for bed, and I am explaining to TLG that tomorrow we are going to up to Olympia, to see Ur-Opa.

"I think he must be very sad," says TLG.

"Yes, he is," says Nathan.

"He will need a big hug," I add. "You can tell him you're sorry that Ur-Oma died, and that you love him. That might help him feel a little okay."

I go on to say that we will be dressed up nicely, because we will be going to a Memorial Service, where we will share memories and stories about Ur-Oma.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because that is what you do, when someone you love dies," I say. "You tell stories about them, and remember, and it helps with the sadness."

"Me too?" he asks.

"You can if you want to," I respond. "Do you have a story about Ur-Oma you'd like to share?"

"Yes," he says, with all the innate, unflappable confidence of a 3-year-old.

"What story would you like to share?"

He hesitates. "Um," he says, obviously thinking hard. "Ur-Oma died,"

"Yes she did," I say. "But did you want to share a memory about her?" His little brow furrows, and he continues to think.

"Hugs," he says at last.

"She gave you hugs?" I ask, just to clarify. "And you liked them?"

"Yes!" He beams up at me, pleased with his answer, and my comprehension. I smile at him, stroking his hair and thinking, it took me nearly two hours to write the tribute I plan on delivering tomorrow... but his is probably better.

Listening to Sad Music So That I Can Cry

My Oma died today.

(Oma, of course, being the German word for Grandmother: in this instance my Mom's Mom.)

It wasn't a surprise at all- she'd had a stroke back in May, was hospitalized/in rehab for about six weeks, and we all knew that basically the goal was to get her well enough to come home to die.

And she did.  So at least there's that.

I got the call while I was at the playground.  Nathan and I had taken TLG and my best friend's son (whom we were babysitting this weekend) to run off some energy, and thank all the gods Nathan was literally standing right next to me when I got the call, able to put his arm around me and be a solid presence grounding me.

It was my mom, and her voice when she said hello- I knew.  And I cracked a joke because that's how we roll, and we both laughed and cried and then I had to lock that shit down because I had two little boys I had just told I was taking for ice cream.

I'm proud of my ability to compartmentalize- it is extremely useful is emergency situations.  But the problem is that it's a lot harder to unlock that emotional box than it is to lock it in the first place.

Even after we were back to our typical Family Unit of Three, with Nathan occupying TLG downstairs so that I could have some Alone Time upstairs... nothing.  Numbness.  And I feel like I can't talk about it with TLG until I can express honest emotion.  Right now I'm too detached, too clinical.  I a not a healthy model of grief.

Hence I'm now working on this blog entry, forcing myself to face and process things, and listening to sad music for good measure.  Sometimes you just have to artificially jump start the emotions before they'll flow properly.  Priming a pump, or something.  I don't know.  I don't have it in me to make elegant metaphors, at the moment.

And just like that, it's working.

Father's Day 2019

(How's that for a distinctive title?)

It's been somewhat of an Emotionally Weird Father's Day.

Let me explain.

It's been five years since I've had a truly Terrible Father's Day- that being the one that occurred right after the second miscarriage, and Nathan and Katie and I got lunch at Red Lobster and the clueless waitress said brightly to us (a trio of extremely quiet, mid-thirties people eating lunch at 2pm with no children in our midst), "Are you here celebrating Father's Day?"

(Read the room, lady.  Read the room.)

The 19 years preceding that, they'd run the gamut from "Crying most of the day," to "Hey who wants the day off because I will definitely take your shift and get some extra money out of this stupid made up holiday!"

But then TLG came along, and the game changed.  Suddenly it was a Happy Day again, with an actual reason to celebrate, and warm, tender feelings for my Lifemate in his role as Lifegiver.  It gives me great pleasure to be able to anticipate the made up holiday with joy and expectation, to be able to make it into a Special Day (or at least a day with Special Moments) for my mate.  The Specialness I had planned for today was helping TLG make a card for Nathan, taking him to the second service of church so he could see Daddy play, and then going out to eat wherever Nathan wanted (not Red Lobster...)  Nathan obviously left the house at his usual way-too-early time (since he plays for both services, and gets there early to run through things), so I was alone as TLG scarfed his breakfast downstairs and I ruminated my Costume Choices.

In the end I felt a very powerful call to wear an old shirt of my dad's leftover from his early Air Force days (Yep, a ~40 year old t-shirt.  It has exactly one tiny hole in it, the result of a too-enthusiastic cat.  They do not make things like they used to, that's for damn sure.)  I didn't put much thought into it, just "Yes, this is a good shirt to wear today, to remember my father in a non-painful way."

But then... someone actually asked me about the shirt.

"Okay, I have to know," says the kind substitute pastor gesturing to my back.  "Who is JP 13?"

"Oh," I blink, taken off guard by the question, and suddenly realizing it wasn't perhaps totally appropriate to wear a shirt that says, "The Hell We Can't" into my husband's church.  "JP was my dad.  And 13 was his..." I fumble for a way to translate into Civilian Terms.  "...class... thing."

"Class of 2013?"  The pastor eyes my obviously late-thirties-self with a smile.  "I don't think so,"

"No no,"  I wave my hands helplessly.  "Not the year.  Their class number.  Like a squadron.  It was from some training he did after he graduated from the Air Force Academy.  They... they got to design their own patches and..."  I stretch the front of the shirt out, as though somehow he hasn't already noticed, "They chose squeezing blood from a turnip.  Obviously.  And I, uh... I decided to wear it in remembrance of him today."  Sorry about the 'hell' thing, I add mentally.

"It's a wonderful remembrance," he says, and I like him that much more.

The conversation wrapped up pretty quickly thereafter, but the shock of it- of someone who doesn't know me asking, and me actually talking about my father- shifted my brain a bit.  So that rather than "Okay thought about Daddy for 30 seconds this morning now I can put all my focus onto Nathan," it became more of a balance between the two.  The bitter and the sweet.  And I'm not saying it's bad, or that I'm upset it happened.  But it added an emotional nuance to the day I wasn't expecting.  And I may or may not have teared up a bit at the end of service when Nathan was talking to the congregation about what it means to be a good father.

Anyway.

Overall it was an extremely good day.  We had (a very late) lunch at Thai Orchid, and then Nathan went to the guitar store for a few hours (because I firmly believe that Mother's and Father's Days ought to be about the parental figure in question doing something for themselves) while TLG and I hung out at home.  And now I'm going to bed, because I am of an age where Good Days include Early Bedtimes.

::sigh::

Death, and Other Beautiful Things

It's been an interesting couple of weeks.  I've been thinking a lot about death and acceptance of the inevitable, and it definitely shows in what I've been doodling.  Which is not to say that I'm in a particularly dark or depressing place (insofar as death goes, anyway)- just... contemplative.  I've also been listening to Hayden Calnin's Cut Love Pt 1 on repeat.  Soooo...

I'm going to put these up slightly out of order, for the sole purpose of making sure the preview photo is a decent one.  Ah, vanity.  One of my many, many flaws.

Why Do You Hide

Although this is, to me, kind of a sad piece (the sketch sprang from sad- although not death-related- musings), it was also fun to work on.  Because hair.  And rainbows.  And getting highly pigmented lines with my watercolor.  I kept meaning to go back in and add shadows with gray, and maybe  I still will, but at the time I needed to let go and move on.

To a super cute baby!

...and by move on, I mean I was hanging out at Boozeday and there was a super cute baby there that needed to be sketched.  Now let's back up a bit to the second:

We had a date night!  I wore a swanky dress!

Aaaaand back (to the future!) again to the seventh:

Ireland-ISH

I was feeling particularly uninspired, so I checked my table and saw that it was monochrome British Isles Landscape day!  Which I started, and then forgot I was doing monochrome so the sky is blue but that's okay.  I like the sky.

Purely Ridiculous

You may be asking yourself, "What the bloody hell is happening here?" and frankly, Dear Reader, I don't blame you.  Because there is a narrow segment of the population to whom this bit of nonsense might appeal/even make sense to, and that is the place in the Venn Diagram of Fandom wherein Fans of Elfquest intersect with Fans of Watership Down.  I doodled and painted this (over the eighth, ninth, and tenth) in response to a conversation with said people (ie my people).  It's two of the protagonists of Elfquest, Cutter and Skywise, done up as rabbits.  I regret nothing.

Speaking of Watership Down (aka my favorite prose novel)...

"What is, is what must be."

I've been dwelling a lot on death, and when one thinks about Death when one is also thinking about Watership Down, one naturally thinks of the rabbits' manifestation of Death- the Black Rabbit of Inle.  And knowing that black is meant to be a scary color, an absence-of-light sort of color, just as death is mean to be scary, an absence-of-life, but knowing also that black can be the presence of all-color... well, that lead down the rabbit hole (sorry not sorry) of making a Black Rabbit with rainbows glinting through his fur.  Which lead to the three days worth of experimentation you see on this page.

Which, in turn, leads us to today, wherein I was doing more Thinking About Death, but this time in terms of an entirely different Fandom: Harry Potter.

Gentle Creature

I love the whole concept of thestrals: creatures that can only be seen by those who have witnessed and gained an emotional understanding of death.  Poor, scary-looking things: I would pet one, if I could.

Which brings me, once again, up to date with my endeavor.  For now.

Things are getting pretty intense with my studies: I've done well enough that they've allowed me to bump up the date of my test, so now it's less than a week away.  Eek!  I'm definitely ready to be done with this portion, however: this entire process has really been laying some of my uglier flaws (arrogance, impatience, ease of distraction, temper) bare to the fire, only to crack a hammer down on them, repeatedly.  Here's hoping I can allow myself to be shaped appropriately.

A Candle Held By Steady Hand Goes Dancing in the Dark

I've mentioned before that I've repressed much of 1994, the year my father was diagnosed with- and died from- cancer.  This is just my brain's way of doing its best to protect me from the horror of that time, which just goes to show that Jerk Brain is definitely not part of my Real Brain, which is obviously a much more thoughtful and considerate entity.  Because when you've mostly repressed something, you can't really spend time dwelling on it, and if you don't really spend time dwelling on it, you're far less likely to slit your own wrists in a moment of poor judgement.  Of course, the flip side to that is that I also don't, generally speaking, remember the good times from that year, either- and yes, there were some; moments here and there of brave candlelight in a long dark night of fear and sorrow.

Yesterday I found out that my Great Aunt (sister to my father's mother) died.  I was at work when I heard, and work isn't really the time or place for processing such things, so I shoved it down and went along with my day, until I could get home and write in my journal.  And as I wrote in my journal about how I felt, and the impact Cordelia Ann Richmond Dew had on my life, memories suddenly bubbled up from the repressed darkness.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized that I thought of the summer of 1994 as The Terrible Summer- I mean, I didn't really think of it at all, so how could I have a Title for it?- but apparently I do.  And one of the things that happened during The Terrible Summer was that my brother and I, eight and thirteen, went to live with Aunt Dee and Uncle Gene while my dad was poked and prodded, poisoned and sliced open, and all those other things they do to try and save you when you're very very sick.  In the haze of recently-recovered adolescent-memories it seems as though we stayed with them The Whole Summer, but I know it wasn't- surely it wasn't more than a month, maybe even only three weeks.  Regardless, three or four weeks is a very long time for a child (even a very clever child who has had to do a lot of growing up over the previous few months) to be sent to live with a great-aunt with whom she's never been around except in the company of the rest of her boisterous family.

I was not very gracious about it.  I don't mean that I was a brat, or rebellious, or anything like that- I was too much the Goody-Two-Shoes for any sort of negative acting out- but I was very, very self-centered and selfish, and spent a great deal of time alone.  My memories are of swimming in their pool, discovering MTV on the television in their office (I have very vivid memories of watching the video for Black Hole Sun over and over again), and reading Renegades of Pern in the room that had been designated as mine.  I remember finding Dee's copy of How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way, and devouring it, and her providing me with reams of printer paper (remember when it was perforated?) to practice on, because she was an artist too and understood.  And I rememer her patiently showing me how to use the type writer so I could labor over my Very Epic SciFi Adventure Romance Story wherein a bunch of teenagers were abducted by aliens and dumped (naked, naturally) on an uncivilized planet to see if they'd survive (and breed, also naturally).  Definitely the main character was based on me (her name was Leia naturally) and the main love interest was 100% based on my three-years-older-than-me-crush.  And the other characters were also based on my best friends at the time and their crushes.  Just... thank goodness the Internet wasn't ubiquitous yet, that's all the commentary I have on that.

But back to the heart of the matter.

What I'm saying here with this long and rambling and typically self-centered bit of prose is that I spent a lot of time alone that month, doing and thinking about the things that suited me- and Dee gave me the space and support that I needed to do and think about those things.  She didn't hover, she wasn't trying to make me talk about shit I didn't want to talk about.  She was just... there for me.  And for my brother, who doesn't feature much in my self-absorbed memories of that time (beyond one moment of him dumping ketchup on his mashed potatoes, and her laughing).  And for my parents, who surely were having a much more hellish time than we were.  And for her sister, who was thereby freed to be with her son during said hellish time (something I now appreciate in a way that never would have occurred to me before I had my own son).  Dee was just... there, doing what needed to be done, and doing it without complaint while finding a way to smile and laugh and encourage you and give you what you actually needed rather than what society said you needed.  She was loving and accepting and smart and funny and loyal and wonderful, and I'm so grateful for what she did for me and for my family.  So grateful to have had her in my life at all.

I just hope she and her big sister picked a really excellent shade of crimson to slather the Hereafter with.

On a Random Wednesday in January, I Miss You Terribly

I'm walking down the street, in the bitter bitter cold, and I'm talking to my mom on the phone, and she's probably having a hard time understanding me, because my voice is breaking as I'm speaking and I'm trying so hard to keep from crying and failing utterly and I don't know how coherent I'm being, anyway.

"I'm so pissed that I'm so... so pathetically desperate for stories of my father that I'm willing to ignore that part of my brain trying to warn me that something might not be right in this situation.  And part of the pain and frustration comes from... it's just... I do deeply appreciate my friends who want to be there for me, when I'm missing him, but what I really want, what's really contributing to this sadness, is my craving for people who knew him.  It's just- I only have so many memories of him, and I don't get to make any more.  So sometimes... sometimes I just want to supplement with other people's memories."






(Never stop telling stories of people you once knew.  In the end, that's all we have.)

We Go By the Will of the Black Rabbit

Richard Adams was an old friend that I never met, and I regret that I never sent him a thank-you note for all he did for me.

RIDDIKULUS!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the 2016 O'Richey-O Halloween Costumes:

...although I kind of look like Sally from the Nightmare Before Christmas in this PARTICULAR shot...

I'm so, so excited about this you guys.  So excited.  We've been planning this family costume ever since we realized that our child would be about a year old come Halloween.  Which is to say this has been nearly 18 months in the planning.  It's nice to see it finally take shape, even if no one else (save, like, three trick-or-treaters) got to see it in the flesh.

I am cognizant of the fact that this family portrait is actually pretty damn macabre- but then again, this is Halloween, when you're supposed to face up to the things that terrify you.  And leaving my child orphaned is definitely something that frightens me to my core- far more than any ghosts or goblins.  Fear is personal that way, as is how we confront it.  For me, at least, the best strategy I can conceive of is to laugh at it.

The boychild isn't phased, anyway.

Riddikulus, indeed.

Still(ed) Life by Krumps

There can be beauty in death.  Sometimes I wonder if that's why the gods made blood so red.

Feeling It

i didn't feel like "a mother"
for a very long time
not when i lost
that first fluttering heartbeat
or the second
not when i birthed
the fully formed third(first)
not when i held him
in my arms
instead of
my womb

not when i nursed him
or read to him
and called him by name
not when i walked with him
in the sunshine
or the snow
not when other people
called me
"a mother"
not when i woke
night after night after night
and sleep deprivation
became the new normal
not when I had to
go back to work
and felt sick to my stomach at leaving him
not when he crawled
or stood
reaching out for me
laughing

but yesterday
yesterday
when i heard the news
and i wept
for another woman
that's when i finally
finally
realized
what it meant
to be a mother
and that of course
of course
i feel like one

Unnatural

My friend's daughter died, and I am devastated.

I am devastated for her because she is my friend, and her sorrow makes me sorrow.  That much, I might have expected.

What I did not realize- could not realize- is that from now until forever, I am devastated for her and other people like her because I am a parent now, and I have some inkling of the horror.

Her daughter was not a baby.  Her daughter was not a child, or a teenager.  Her daughter was a grown woman, just three years younger than me.

But her daughter was a baby.  A chubby baby just like mine, standing tall and triumphant, but not quite certain how to take that first step.  Her daughter was a child, running in from outside just to say, "I love you mommy!"; was a teenager who rolled her eyes but took advice anyway.  Her daughter was her daughter and suddenly I understand that the fear never, ever stops.  I thought surely he would get to the age where I'd stop constantly worrying about him dying, about me not being able to save him but she was thirty-two with a baby of her own and she still died.

Which brings us to the next level of my devastation.

That baby's mother died.  That chubby little baby will never get to know its mother, except through other's stories.  What if I die and all that's left for my son is words on the page?  It's not enough.  Not enough,  not enough.

I am selfish in my grief, turning it inward, making it about me and my fear, if only because I don't know what else to do.  If only because I know there is nothing I can do.  Babies die, even when they are parents themselves, and all the phone calls and hugs and casseroles and tears in the world won't change the fact that her greatest fear happened, long after she shouldn't have had to be afraid of it any more.

At my father's funeral my grandmother wept, "A mother shouldn't have to bury her children."  At the time I couldn't understand that: after all, they were adults.  Adults know people who die- adults go to funerals all the time.  Everyone knows that.  It's little kids who weren't supposed to lose their parents, in my mind.

And, of course, they're not.

But she was right; parents shouldn't have to bury their children, no matter what the age of those children.  That's the difference.  Someday (hopefully a long, long time from now) my mother will die, and I will mourn, but it will be part of the natural order of things, my burying her.

There it nothing natural about my friend burying her daughter.

The Doll in the Garden of My Mind

It is fascinating to me, how hard a brain will work to protect a heart.

Two of the books I uncovered at my mom's house were The Doll in the Garden: A Ghost Story, by Mary Downing Hahn, and When the Dolls Woke, by Marjorie Filley Stover.  I remembered the story lines of both of them perfectly clearly.  I also distinctly remember preferring Woke.  In fact, I was a little puzzled that I'd kept Garden, but I decided to go ahead and reread it, and in fact to reread it before Woke, so as to save the best for last.

And so I started reading.

(Twenty-seven-year-old spoilers to follow)

I soon discovered that, for all I could tell you every little plot twist that happened in the book, I had completely forgotten every tiny detail relating to the fact that the main character's father had recently died of cancer.  It was just sort of... removed from my memory, whole-cloth, like you might cut out a star from a piece of construction paper.  Even as I read that he'd died of cancer, I still didn't remember the revelations that would come later in the story- namely that the girl had overwhelming feelings of guilt over being too afraid to kiss her father right before he died, because of all the tubes and machines.

I may have started bawling in the break room.

And I realized... this book probably had a massive impact on how I handled my dad's illness.

Looking back at that time, I'm always sort of vaguely baffled by some of the surprisingly mature and self-aware decisions I made.  For example, when I achieved menarche while visiting him in the hospital in Mississippi, I realized we didn't have time for me to play the stereotypical embarrassed preteen.  I knew in my gut that it would make him happy to know that his daughter was becoming a woman, and so I told him- and every other adult in the room.  And there were a lot of them.  And I think my subsequent, "Feels like I'm wearing a diaper," grumbling brought everyone a certain welcomed levity in the midst of a very dark time.

It was a strangely cold and logical decision for a not-quite-thirteen-year-old to make, and I've wondered, in the intervening years, where I got the awareness to make it.

Now I think perhaps that reading Garden when I was younger showed me how terrible regret could be, especially when it came to the death of a parent.  And so I took that lesson and tried very hard to make sure that I wouldn't have any.

And then my brain just went and sterilized my memory.

If I'm being honest, I don't really remember much around the time that my dad got sick and died.  It wasn't that long a span- he was diagnosed in February and died in November.  Nine months.

(The irony.)

Anyway, my point is that there's more or less a whole year of my life that is mostly missing- I have the occasional highlight, like the menstruation story, or watching MTV for the first time at my great-aunt's house, or standing outside the funeral home with my two best friends- but for the most part... it's been clipped away, just like the dad in Garden.

And yet I kept the book, perhaps because somewhere deep in my psyche I knew it was valuable, knew it was worth saving.  It makes me wonder if, someday, I'll get the missing pieces of 1994 back, too.

It makes me wonder if I want to.

Missing Koopa

I woke up thinking of Koopa this morning, for no particular reason that I can discern.  I lay in bed, in the early morning light, examining those feelings.

On the one hand, there is sadness.  Sadness for my baby girl that died, that I never got to meet.  On the other hand, if she'd lived, we wouldn't have Neeps.  And I don't want to not have Neeps.  So there's also guilt.

It complicates the grief somewhat.

But I'm not unused to that sort of conflict- after all, I miss my dad and wish he hadn't died, but if he hadn't died, I wouldn't have the life I have.  And I like the life I had.  So.  Yeah.

Complex.

And then in the evening I got on Facebook and saw everyone freaking out (with delight or dread) over the new Anne of Green Gables adaptation, and many, many females of my acquaintance (and their acquaintance) expressing an identification with Anne.  One friend-of-a-friend in particular said, "Anne is me."

I clicked on her comment to say in a joking sort of way, "I certainly hope not, given what happens in later books!" but then I realized that her avatar was a picture of an extremely-familiar sight: a fetus far too tiny to ever live, cradled in the palm of her hand.

"Oh," I thought.  "Oh, my poor sister."

Because yes, Anne is her.  And Anne is me.  And Anne is everyone who has ever lost their baby.  I remember reading that book in the bath, and bawling, because suddenly Anne and I had more in common than I'd ever dreamed.

There's no clever quip to end this entry.  Just a dull and complicated sort of sadness, and a fierce gratefulness for the joys that balance it out.

Visiting Ghost Opa and Other Bonding Experiences

Today I did something that is, no getting around it, pretty damn weird.

I took my kid to a cemetery to take smiling photos with him on my father's grave (and also over my grandparents' graves).

Yeah yeah yeah, understandable, whatever- still weird.  Get use to it, kid: yours will be a lifetime of this sort of weirdness.

Anyway, after that we came back to my mom's house and did the A#1 thing I had planned to do while we were in Alabama in freaking August:

SWIMMING!

 Yaaaaay!  Now granted it started raining literally the moment we got in the pool, so we were not exactly having the sun-soaked experience I'd envisioned, but whatever we were swimming.  I even put my new suit to the test by doing a few dives: it held up.

After Neeps was put to bed, Nathan and I hit the town- specifically a nice little pub downtown.  We spent much of our date marveling over the fact that we were able to be on it in Prattville: this little town has changed a lot since we were teenagers.

We shut the place down (not hard to do on a weeknight) and then went for a walk on the waterfront.  Eventually we sat on a bench and creek/moon/pokemon-hunter watched for a while.  All in all, not a bad way to spend an evening in a (no-longer-)small southern town.

Little Love

When we saw the banners outside the museum trumpeting the mammoth display, I was not expecting this.

Bones, perhaps.  Dioramas, certainly, and artists' renditions.  Many thousands of interesting and educational words, of course.  But not this.  Not her.

I've read about her, of course- the perfectly preserved baby mammoth discovered in Russia almost a decade ago- but it's different from seeing her in the desiccated flesh.  Different, too, now that I'm a mother, with my own baby sleeping soundly against my chest.

My eyes prick with tears as I press my fingers to the glass that encases her.  I cannot help it.  She's almost as big as I am, but all I can think of is her mother, unable to rescue her.  Elephants grieve: it stands to reason that mammoths did, as well.  My brain begins to spin out a story to comfort my heart.

***

My daughter enters the world in a spray of blood beneath a deadly sharp tusk moon.  I wonder, fearful, if this means she will be a warrior for our people, destined to die in battle- but when the Oldest Aunties come they shake their heads at my trepidation.

Not this one.  She is meant to be a great teacher of many peoples, and she will remain when all the rest of our descendants have turned to dust.

What better could a mother wish for her child?  An important destiny twined with a long life.  I nurse my daughter and dream of her bright future.

The moon is dark when my daughter leaves this world, pulled down, down into the mud that is darker still.  There is nothing I or any of the Aunties can do to aid her, but I cry out in rage and anguish, hoping that the strength of my love can somehow bring her back to me.

But death has no fear of love.

You have lied to me!

I am screaming.  I should not scream at the Oldest Aunties- I should show them respect in all things, lest I be shown my place.

But love has no fear of death.

You told me my daughter would outlive us all!  That she would be a great teacher!  But she did not live long enough to see her second full moon- what good are your portents, your signs, if they cannot prevent the death of an innocent?  Why should we follow powerless liars?

I am not struck down.  They are mournful.  They try to comfort me.  They have lost mothers, sisters, daughters of their own, they know grief and they forgive me my sacrilege.

I wish they would strike me down.

We did not lie.  Not understanding a truth does not make it a falsehood.  There is more to this world than what we may know, and your daughter has gone to fulfill her destiny.

Jack, Wrangle, and the Star Stuff (Unfinished)

Here is a bit from the next installment of what I've been referring to as my "Books for Mortal Children" series, which started with the Rainbow Bridge story.  This one is being written for my friends who maybe don't want to teach an expectation of an afterlife, because they aren't so sure they themselves believe in it.  To them I say (/literally said): I don't know that I believe in an afterlife.  But I believe in stories."

***

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Jack.  Jack had a best friend named Wrangle, and the two of them loved playing together- almost as much as they loved one another, which is to say, quit a bit indeed.

One day Jack said to Wrangle, "What game will be play today, Wrangle?" and Wrangle said, "Today were are going to build things, Jack.”

“Okay, Wrangle!” said Jack.  “Let me get my blocks!”

“Actually, Jack,” said Wrangle.  “I would like to use my blocks today, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, Wrangle!” said Jack.  “We’ve never built anything with your blocks before.”

“Well,” said Wrangle, “That’s because my blocks are very special. In fact, they’re not shaped like your blocks at all, you see?” and Wrangle held out a box marked “Building Blocks”.  When Jack looked in the blocks he saw that it was true- Wrangle’s blocks were different from his.  In fact, they looked a bit like-

“Stars!” said Jack.  “They glitter just like stars!”

“Yes, they do,” said Wrangle.  “That’s why I call them my star stuff.”

“What can we build with star stuff, Wrangle?” asked Jack.

“Whatever we can dream of, Jack,” said Wrangle.

“Let’s build a castle!” said Jack, and they did.  It was a big, beautiful castle, and Jack was very proud of it, but after a while he said,

“Let’s build something else, Wrangle.”

“Okay, Jack,” said Wrangle.  “Let’s build… a space station!”

“Yes,” said Jack, “I would like to build a space station!”  And he turned to the box marked, “Building Blocks”, but it was empty.  “Oh no, Wrangle!” he said, “There’s no more star stuff!”

“That’s okay, Jack,” said Wrangle.  “We can just take the castle apart, and use the star stuff to build the space station.”

And they did.

In fact, they built many things that day, not just a castle and a space station.  They took the space station apart and used the star stuff to build a mountain.  They took the mountain apart and used the star stuff to build a tree.  They took the tree apart and built a dragon that lived in the deepest part of the ocean.  They built a whole herd of elephants, and a playground, and even a giant pillow big enough for the both of them to rest on.  Sometimes Jack wished they had enough star stuff to keep something and build the next thing, but there just wasn’t- and wishing wouldn’t make it so.

***

It's not quite done yet, obviously.  I'm still hashing out the last little bit, but I feel like I should have it pretty soon.

("Soon" being a very relative term these days, of course.)

Vera, Delilah, and the Rainbow Bridge

(for my son, so that when the day comes, he will maybe understand just a little)

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Vera.  Vera had a best friend named Delilah, and the two of them loved to go on adventures together- almost as much as they loved one another, which is to say, quit a bit indeed.

One day Vera said to Delilah, "What sort of adventure are we going to have today, Delilah?" and Delilah said, "I do not feel like adventuring today, Vera."

"What do you feel today, Delilah?" asked Vera.

"I feel very tired, Vera.  And of course I feel love that I love you."

"That's okay, Delilah," said Vera.  "We can just sit quietly together, because I feel that I love you, too, and that's enough adventure for me."

The next day, Vera said to Delilah, "What sort of adventure are we going to have today, Delilah?" and Delilah said, "I'm afraid I am still very tired, Vera.  I think I am sick."

Vera threw her arms around Delilah and said, "That's okay, Delilah.  We will sit quietly together for as long as it takes for you to get better."

And that's what they did for a long time, but Delilah never seemed to feel any better.  Then the day came when Delilah said, "Vera, I think I am ready for another adventure, but I need your help."

"Oh Delilah!" said Vera.  "You know I will help you any way I can.  That's what best friends are for!  What sort of adventure are we going to have?"

"We must find the Rainbow Bridge," said Delilah, "and I must cross over it."

"What's on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge?" asked Vera, for she thought it sounded like a magical adventure, indeed.

"New adventures," said Delilah, "and old friends, and many other wonderful things.  And most importantly, once I cross the Rainbow Bridge, I won't be sick anymore."

"Well that sounds like the perfect adventure for today, Delilah.  Here, lean on me and we'll get started."

Delilah did lean on Vera, and although Delilah was very heavy, Vera never once complained- although she did have to take breaks to rest.  This is because although she loved Delilah very, very much, she was only a little girl, and no one- not even the strongest grownup- can be leaned on all the time.  But eventually the two of them found their way to the foot of the Rainbow Bridge.

"Oh my!" said Vera.  "It's even more beautiful than I imagined- but it's so very long that I can't see the other side!  How long will it take us to cross it, Delilah?"

"You cannot cross it, Vera," said Delilah, "Because it's not your time yet.  But I will cross it very swiftly indeed, once I am on it."

"What?" said Vera.  "What do you mean it's not my time?  How will you cross if you do not have me to lean on?  How will you get back?"

"That is the magic of the Rainbow Bridge," said Delilah.  "Once it is your time, the Bridge itself will give you the strength you need to cross over.  But Vera, you must understand- once I have crossed the Rainbow Bridge, I cannot cross back.  I will be on the other side forever."

"Oh no!" said Vera, "I don't want you to go, Delilah!  What good are adventures without you?" and she began to cry.

"Don't cry, Vera.  I love you so much that I will stay if you really want me to," said Delilah, but her voice was sad, and Vera could see how tired she still was.  And Vera remembered what Delilah had told her, about how she would not be sick once she crossed the Rainbow Bridge, and Vera knew she could not ask her friend to stay.

"You said there are old friends on the other side?" Vera asked, wiping her eyes.

"Oh yes," said Delilah.  "Friends I have not seen in many years.  I have missed them since they crossed the Rainbow Bridge, just as you will miss me."

"But they're waiting for you?" asked Vera.

"Oh yes," said Delilah, "Just as I will wait for you."

"And you'll have new adventures together?"

"Oh yes," said Delilah.  "And I will tell them stories about the adventures I had with you, and they will like that."

"And, and will you tell me stories about the adventures you have with them, once it is my time?" asked Vera.

"Oh yes," said Delilah.  "But you must have new adventures so that you can tell me stories, too."

"I will!" said Vera.  "I will have as many wonderful adventures as I can, so that I can tell you many, many wonderful stories once it's my time!"

"I will like that," said Delilah, and gave her friend a kiss.  "I love you very much, Vera."

"I love you very much, Delilah," said Vera, and threw her arms around her best friend one last time.  Then she kissed Delilah on her brow, and stood back to watch as Delilah stepped onto the Rainbow Bridge.

Vera kept right on watching as Delilah stood up straighter than she had for a very long time, and began to walk with a lighter step.  And soon Delilah was running joyfully, faster and faster towards the unseen end, and Vera suddenly realized how much her friend must have been hurting, and she knew she had been right to let her go.

Soon Delilah was out of sight, and Vera had herself a good cry, because even tho' she knew Delilah crossing the Rainbow Bridge had been the right thing, it still hurt to say goodbye to her friend.  And once she was done crying, she splashed some cold water on her face, and turned for home, because she knew her mother and father would be worried if she stayed gone too long.  And she also knew she must get a good night's rest, for tomorrow would bring a new adventure, and she must be ready for it.

Buddies

My Father's Face

So remember how earlier this week I was all, "Blah blah blah when did my brother become my peer blah?"  Well I had a moment today blew that away in terms of freak-outs.

I was going through some old photos with my friend Kayla (I was trying to find a "baby photo" of Kink to show how small he was when I adopted him), and we came across one of my favorites of my dad:

See, the hat is funny because we were living in Alaska at the time.  Holy shit was my dad a proto-hipster?

I was getting all nostalgic and happy, saying, "Oh, he must have been about-" and I flipped it over to check the date, and made a sort of strangled noise, "Thirty two?!"

As in, three years younger than I currently am.  And he had a five year old daughter and six month old son and I look at this photo and see "Daddy, who of course is older than me" but actually he is a dude who is pretty much my age right now.

What the actual fuck.

Time gets extra weird when you involve dead people who can't age.

(side note: I pulled the photo of my brother back up and held them side by side.  Yep, definitely his kid.)