I Am This Woman

I wrote some letters today. Here are snippets for public viewing.

1.

February is bittersweet for me. January is a snowplow - all
the leftover pent-up energy and procrastinated chores, the Boy’s
birthday (which of course must be a standalone event, not at all like
Christmas), and then the annual convention for my company. We were in
Reno for a week of snow and cold and passive smoking. I returned with
a lungful and am still coughing.

But February is bittersweet. My dad died on Jan. 30, just a year ago.
I had a renewed concern that he has no shoes. I considered buying a
pair of men’s shoes and putting them in the closet where his coat (an
elegant Harris Tweed overcoat, purchased in Britain in the 50s), scarf
(a Burberry fleece) and safari jacket hang. If he shows up, he’ll be
well-dressed and he’ll have shoes. I can’t even get my mind around
missing him. The loss is still too gaspingly fresh.

And today is my mother’s birthday. I miss her profoundly. A year ago
today, I was driving out of Austin with a truck full of memories and
furniture. I spoke to my brother on the phone, and he brought up our
mother’s birthday to me. I knew it, but I didn’t want to seem
obsessively memorial. But he was. And it was one of the last best
conversations I had with him.

And here comes March and his death. But I have no idea what I would
say to them if they all showed up today for cake. We’d probably cut a
slice, and then watch CNN or the People’s Court. If I were in control
of these ghosts, I’d at least hope we would watch Nova or something on
the Science Channel.

2.

Some days, the grief is like moving through concrete. Not quite set-up
concrete. Some days, I hit patches of molasses, honey, drilling mud.
Some days, I hit chunks and icebergs. Occasionally, I can ski on top
and marvel at the view.

….

Today is Nancy’s birthday. She would be 87. And there’s a
part of me that thinks it would be so cool to have her around at 87,
IF (the longest word in the universe) she were a healthy person. Not
an alcoholic. In my mind, she is becoming more the pistol that I
always knew her to be, not the drunken bitter old lady. There’s a part
of me that likes the fact that my mom was such a character. I told
someone the story about her DUI. “She gave herself a DUI for her 78th
birthday.” Jaws drop. Heh. How many PTA moms claim that? In the south,
it’s called “colorful” when it’s not in your family. I think I will
claim “colorful.”

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 7th, 2008 at 2:18 pm and is filed under Woolgathering, grief, stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.