15 Words or Less Photo Poetry ~ Impenetrable

Photo is a dirty/fogged up parking meter!)

Impenetrable
Smudged and shadowed
mysteries within
yet clarity is found
in reflections
from the outside looking in

Ocean sands and glowing candles

I’ve been in a bit of a funk since I returned from France. Actually, I was in a funk before I went to France… so much so that I didn’t even write about the fact that I was going to France in the first place.

So first things first- I went to France about a month ago.

The trip came up somewhat on the spur of the moment. My friend Viviane grew up in France and still has family there. She needed to make a trip home, and asked if I’d like to go with her. Umm…. That was a hard question to answer. Ha!

So off we went for a whirlwind 19 days. The trip was upon us so quickly; I didn’t even have much of a chance to freak out about the flight. Well, at least not as much as I usually do. At least not enough that Viviane would realize just how neurotic a friend she’d chosen to take with her. I do try to keep the crazy to a minimum.

It was definitely the trip of a lifetime. And a tiring one- we traveled from Paris to her mom’s house, then headed to the coast for three days. Back to her mom’s house for a few days, then headed to Southern France on a four day adventure, then to Paris for the remaining four days of the trip. In 19 days I was able to put my toes in the English Channel, and then in the Atlantic Ocean. We waded in rivers in Southern France, and drove through mountain roads. We walked in the ruins of centuries-old castles, and got lost along the Route de la Noix. (The Road of the Nuts. I thought that was appropriate!) I stood under the Eiffel Tower, put my feet on the spot that marks Paris’s coordinates, and managed to navigate the Paris subway system. We even ventured into a cave in Southern France. I can honestly say that I have seen France from the inside out.



And the food…. Ah, I think I am French at heart. Bread…. Cheese… wine… pastries… sigh. I’ve been home for two weeks and am still going through major pastry withdrawal. To my amazement, I actually lost a few pounds while I was there. I attribute that to all the walking. And we certainly walked A LOT. Americans are most definitely sedentary creatures. And also probably to the lack of fast food restaurants, and the on-the-go processed foods that we typically eat because we are in too much of a hurry to sit down and actually enjoy a meal. One of the most common questions I was asked was if I minded the amount of time spent at the table. On the contrary- it was a welcome change from grabbing a quick bite in front of the TV. And one of my favorite parts of the day was stopping for a coffee and pastry. Have I mentioned yet how much I enjoyed the pastries?

But a lack of baked goods is not what is causing my funk. Although I’m thinking that an éclair and au café would probably do my blue mood a world of good.

No, my problem is the same old story. I miss my sister. I spent an incredible two and a half weeks in France, and all the while, I missed Emily something terribly. Not in the overwhelmingly painful sad kind of missing her... but the “I wish she could be here” kind of missing. Which is an improvement of sorts, I suppose. I wasn’t miserable and depressed during the trip. I wasn’t despondent, and as I might have briefly stated, I was able to fully enjoy and indulge in my new found pastry habit. I laughed, I enjoyed the company and companionship with my best friend, I took a million photos, I had a wonderful time. I’m able to function without the overwhelming sense of loss and black despair.

Yet everything reminded me of her. From the interaction between Viviane and her two sisters, to the amazing sights I wished I could have shared with Emily, and all the pretty things (and presents!) that she would have loved- she was a constant in my thoughts.

I wrote her name in the sand along the coast of St. Malo at the edge of the English Channel, and in the sands of Cap Ferret on the Atlantic shore. The ocean reminds me of Emily more than any place in the world. And even though her name has long since been swept out with the tides, it made me feel like a little piece of her was with me, even for just a few fleeting moments.

When I went to Poland a couple years ago, I lit a candle for Emily in one of the cathedrals. Though I’m not Catholic, it was my little way of letting her know that I was thinking of her. Of letting her know that somewhere, her light is shining. So during this trip, I lit one for her in a cathedral in Bordeaux, and of course- the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. I had a hard time finding a place to light one in Notre Dame. For one thing- it’s HUGE. Pictures certainly do not do it justice. And there were little alcoves honoring all kinds of Saints everywhere. Obviously not being Catholic, most of the areas that were set up for the candles didn’t hold much significance for me. I didn’t really want to light a candle for my sister in just any place I could find, I wanted to find the “right” spot. Something not as… “Catholic-y”, as irreverent as that sounds. And to further test my lack of decision-making skills, it was a rather gloomy cathedral. Most of the alcoves were dark and depressing. I was just about to give up, when I happened upon an area dedicated to St. Genevieve, who was a patron saint of children. Right away, it made me think of Emily- she was really good with kids. It also had the prettiest and brightest stained glass window- in blues and greens. I got an “Emily-vibe” as I stood there. I think she would have liked that one. And so… Emily had a light burning there too.

But oh, how I still miss her! I think about the amazing opportunities that I’ve had, and the places that I’ve been able to go… and I still feel an underlying sense of guilt because she’s not here. Why her? Why not me? And I know there’s no point in asking those kinds of questions, because there’s not a thing I can do about it. My feeling guilty is not going to bring her back. But feelings do not listen to reason, and my feelings happen to belong to one of the most obstinate people on the face of the earth. All I know is that even in the writing her name in the sands and in the glow of the candles I’ve lit- my heart still aches with her absence. It’s abated somewhat over time. But it’s still there. And I suppose it always will be.

So where do I go from here? I don’t know. I simply do not have the answers, and I don’t know where to find them. I just get so tired of the cycle of embracing grief and letting go, only to have it turn tail and head right back for me. I tire of having the highs of a wonderful experience tempered by the shadow of Emily and the loss of her. It’s wearying. I see signs of light at the end of the tunnel, only to find that I’ve run into another dark curve and the light has disappeared.

I need a brighter flashlight.

And a pastry.
Perhaps two.

But ultimately I want the one thing that I cannot have…I want my sister back.

Glimpses Beyond Bars ~ 15 Words or Less Photo Poetry

Glimpses Beyond Bars

Captive soul
yearns to break free
to soar beyond
a world
that doesn’t understand
me

The Questions that Define Us

It's the Question that defines every generation. "Where were you when.....?"
I imagine that some day my children or grandchildren will be coming to me for the answer to my Question "Where were you on September 11th?" Perhaps they'll ask out of curiosity, or most likely for a history assignment. Kind of like the questions I asked my parents: "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" or " Where were you when the Challenger exploded?" Sadly, every generation seems to have at least one.

I imagine that Question has been asked several times this week.
I wouldn't know for sure- I haven't watched the news once today.

Now granted, that's really not anything new for me. I haven't watched the news in.... well, I can't remember when. But if I did watch the news on a regular basis, I still wouldn't have been watching it today. I don't need a news anchorperson to remind me of what happened ten years ago. The images are forever burned into my mind- and I don't need to turn on a TV to recall them. Days of spending hours glued to a screen watching sorrow after sorrow caught on film, all the while knowing you are powerless to help, leaves a mark on your heart that never really goes away.

Every one remembers in their own way. I know some people are comforted by inspiring stories, by watching the tributes on TV, by heartfelt lyrics, and photos with a song playing in the background. And there is nothing wrong with any of those things. It's just not my way of remembering. It's not how I cope. Perhaps it's just another manifestation of my personal tendency to bury deep and ignore those things in my life that I don't want to deal with or think about. "If I close my eyes, I can't see it... therefore it doesn't exist." That of course is straight from chapter one of the gospel of Melissa's Guide to Dealing with Life and All the Crap that Comes With It. Which typically is the case in about 98% of everything in my life. But I don't think that is necessarily the case today. It's not that I don't want to remember. You can't not remember what happened. It's just that for me, sitting and weeping in front of a barrage of image after image of pain and sorrow and confusion and suffering is..... hollow. That's the best description I can come up with to describe it.

There's a part of me that really cannot stand "anniversaries". This "anniversary" is no different in that aspect. I know that people need to mark the passage of time. I know that when significant milestones come around, there's a deep-seated need to draw again on that sense of community and patriotism that swelled in the aftermath of tragedy. But with that comes the question that begs to be asked. Why is this day any different from the day before and the day before that and the day before that...? Where are the tribute videos on Facebook, the American flag pins proudly displayed on blazer lapels, and the sense of solidarity that brought this country together in one of the worst and darkest days in our history as a nation on the other 364 days of the year?

What happened to those days when you weren't a Democrat, Republican, or an Independent- you were an American. What happened to those days where the color of your skin faded and it didn't matter if you were a 1st generation American or if you could trace your roots back to the Mayflower, what mattered was that you stood on the soil that proclaimed "Land of the Free"? What happened to the days when you could look into the eyes of the person next to you and the unspoken message that passed was that we were in this together?

What happened was what happens in all tragedies- life returned to normal. People slip back into their routines and habits and reclaim the prejudices that were all too briefly set aside. Democrats once again became the Devil(s) Incarnate, Republicans returned to thumping their Bibles, and Independents slipped back into the middle ground of Those Who are too Dumb to Make up Their Minds- each group loudly bashing the other. People whose skin was bathed in the glow of red, white, and blue returned to the colors that still somehow are used to determine a person's worth. That ticket from the Mayflower once again became all- important, and newcomers are looked down upon as being on a somewhat lower level as far a citizenship.

Do I sound cynical? Unpatriotic? Preaching from a very high horse? Perhaps. Maybe it's not the most patriotic of remembrances that will be written today. But it's the way I feel. For the average citizen, at least, for this average citizen, September 11th is a day that's now honored once every year, and mostly forgotten about the rest of the time. But for the soldiers that went to war as a result of that day, September 11th bleeds into September 12th. And continues on into February 2nd. May 19th. July 27th. For the thousands of families that lost someone they loved, September 11th is the shadow lingering on October 2nd. On December 24th. On April 3rd. On June 30th. On August 9th. September 11th isn't a once-a-year anniversary for them... it's a daily reality. For me, it's not. The war rages on in countries and towns with names I cannot pronounce, bullets are hurtling through the air, and buildings are burning, people are suffering, families on all sides are mourning their losses all as a result of that day 10 years ago, and yet here I sit in the comfort of my air conditioned house typing on my pretty red laptop, listening to my iPod, occasionally glancing at my Facebook news feed from my phone, dreading going to work in the morning, chatting with my mom and making plans to fly home for Christmas, and all the while drinking microwaved Starbucks coffee. In other words, a typical day.

Somehow the two realities don't equal out in the Scale of Grief. And I am having a hard time reconciling that with the significance of what today should mean to me.

Yes, my life changed that day, along with the lives of this nation, and most of the world in some aspects. The lingering aftershocks still follow me ten years later- an intense aversion to watching the news. A dislike of heights and tall buildings. A greater and more amplified fear of elevators. A flash of slight panic when seeing someone of Mid-Eastern ethnicity at the airport, followed by a deep sense of self-loathing for feeling that way, and worst of all- a sickening realization that even in the knowing it is so, so wrong to feel that way, this prejudice will probably stay with me the rest of my life. Even though September 11th left its scars on me... my life returned to normal. And maybe that's why the marking of its anniversary doesn't bring me comfort. I feel dishonest in honoring a day that most days I don't even think about anymore.

So how do I wrap this up? Surely there ought to be something redeeming to say at the end of all that. Honestly, I think part of me was hoping that I'd find my own answer somewhere in the writing- that I'd suddenly change my outlook and be like the rest of the population who can spend the day remembering without the sense of self-righteousness that I'm pretty sure is threaded all throughout this post...
but you can't help who you are, and I certainly am not like most people.

I guess the best I can do is to try and honor the memory of September 11th. Or rather, quietly mourn and reflect.

Mostly I fervently pray that there will be no more "Where were you When...?" questions to be asked.

15 Words or Less Photo Poetry ~ Moving On

(The photo is one of those automatic vaccuum thingies....)


Moving On...

Empty room
with ghosts and gloom
shadows linger
like prints of a finger
they cannot be
wiped clean

It doesn't play fair

I think what I hate most about grief is its unpredictability. Just when I think I finally have a handle on it, when I think I am finally navigating my way through, when I'm starting to believe that perhaps there is healing, when I'm getting to the point where it's finally easier to breathe...

the rules up and change.

Grief does not play fair. It lurks in unsuspecting corners, lies in wait for when you at your most vulnerable, and plays on what once was safe and familiar. A photograph you've looked at a thousand times a day suddenly catches your eye in a different light and just about breaks your heart. A song that has absolutely nothing to do with death, grief, or loss has you weeping over your steering wheel because it's a new song that Emily has never heard, but she'd probably love it. Someone asks you how many brothers/sisters you have, and you still do not know how to answer that question. A photograph of her drinking out of a plastic cup makes you inexplicably pissed off at the fact that the very same cup is still in the cupboard all these years later, but she's gone. Throughout ordinary convervastions- the word "diabetes" comes up at least once a week. Why is that?

Grief doesn't play fair. It changes the rules.

For the first two years, Emily's birthday didn't hit me as hard as the day she died. The 1st of April forever will be the day that my life, and the life of my family and Emily's friends changes. It's a giant, ragged gash in my timeline. And every time it rolls around, it marks another year that she's been gone. The 1st of April is like a shadow that I know I can't escape. It's expected, and I'm learning how to wait out the shadow of that day. But her birthday was different. I think because in my mind, she'll never be more than 20. It's hard to imagine what she'd be like at 24, because it would be just that- an imagining. Without her here to incessantly bug me about what I bought her, or where we were going to dinner, it's easier to let the day go by with a remembering, but not dwelling. For me, her birthday was easier to get through, because as callous as this soounds.... without her here the day lost its significance for me.

But oh no... not this year. Grief decided to throw me a curveball and turn me into a complete, weeping mess. I miss her today so much I can literally feel the ache. I close my eyes and picture her, and it feels so real I don't want to open my eyes. I plugged in my iPod on the way to work, in the hopes of drowning out the sorrows in my head. Lately I've been on a Melissa Etheridge kick, and I figured she'd be a safe choice- there's not alot of sorrow in her rock-style singing. But grief, in its cosmic plot against me, had other ideas. The song "Breathe" came on, which contains the lyrics of a chorus that goes "I'm alright, I'm alright. It only hurts when I breathe."

And cue the water works. That line, that chorus, sums up my existence lately. I'm alright, I say. Sure, I'm fine. Put on a smile, work hard, laugh, best foot forward. But meanwhile, each breath is an aching for what's missing.

Grief doesn't play fair.

I sobbed my way through the song. Then figured if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. I switched on my playlist I've entitled "Emily", which is every song I have that makes me think of her, and I bawled my eyes out on my way to work. I gave in and I cried for the heart-ache, for the unfairness of it all, for the loneliness, for the breaking and mending of a heart, for the memories that were, and the ones that will never be.

I can't say that I felt better- nothing will ever make it better. But I did feel a little less despondent, and at least ready to face the world. (Once I cleaned up my face. Note to self- buy waterproof mascara).

Grief may not play fair, but then again.... it's never played against me.

Breathe- Melissa Etheridge

I played the fool today
I just dream of vanishing into the crowd
Longing for home again Home,
is a feeling I buried in you

I'm alright, I'm alright
It only hurts when I breathe

And I can't ask for things to be still again
No I can't ask if I could walk through the world in your eyes
Longing for home again Home,
is a feeling I buried in you

I'm alright, I'm alright
It only hurts when I breathe
I'm alright, I'm alright
It only hurts when I breathe

My window through which nothing hides
And everything sees
I'm counting the signs and cursing the miles in between
Home

Home, is a feeling I buried in you, that I buried in you

I'm alright, I'm alright
It only hurts when I breathe
I'm alright, I'm alright
It only hurts when I breathe, when I breathe
Yeah, it only hurts when I breathe, when I breathe
Oh,it only hurts when I breathe

Absence

"There is nothing that can replace the absence of someone dear to us, and one should not even attempt to do so. One must simply hold out and endure it. At first that sounds very hard, but at the same time it is also a great comfort. For to the extent the emptiness truly remains unfilled one remains connected to the other person through it. It is wrong to say that God fills the emptiness. God in no way fills it but much more leaves it precisely unfilled and thus helps us preserve -- even in pain -- the authentic relationship. Further more, the more beautiful and full the remembrances, the more difficult the separation. But gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. One bears what was lovely in the past not as a thorn but as a precious gift deep within, a hidden treasure of which one can always be certain."


~Dietrich Bonhoeffer


Happy Birthday Emily.

15 Words or Less Photo Poetry

Twisted wire

digging into pristine sky

rain pours through pin-pricked holes

when angels start to cry.

Three Years....and then some

The blank screen has been mocking me. I feel like I have a million words just aching to pour out of my fingers, but I'm just not sure where to start anymore. Even writing in a journal, pen to paper, writing with the freedom of knowing that no one else will read those words.... the words still don't come. Words used to be my solace, my way of coping, my outlet. And now? It's an emptiness. I want to write, but I don't know who I am writing for anymore. My thoughts are disjointed, and so are my sentences, and when I re-read what I've written, it falls flat and empty. And when I can't say what I want to say perfectly, I'm too embarrassed to post it. Heaven forbid I write something that is less than stellar. There aren't many things that I am good at... so the few things that I am relatively talented at, I'm pridefully snobbish about.

And perhaps therein lies the reason for my writing block. Maybe the flight of my Muse is nothing more than a much-needed dose of humility to remind me that I write to release, not to impress. Maybe I need to write without thinking, without wondering what people will think, and eventually I'll come back to where writing was healing, not hindering.


I don't know what to say that hasn't already been said. Another year has come and gone. Another milestone, another empty day. On the first of April, I started to post something on facebook about missing Emily. But I didn't.... because I wasn't sure if I really wanted to read the plethora of "thinking of you's", "I'm sorry's", or whatever else's people say. And I don't mean that in an ungrateful way... because the comments and notes from people who remembered meant the world to me, they really did. The problem was within my own self. I did some soul searching and realized that I was searching for something, ANYTHING, to fill the emptiness, and I was looking for sympathy. I would have found it on Facebook... but then I was more afraid that the consolation I thought I was searching for would instead make that emptiness all the more real. That instead of filling the ache, it would echo more resoundingly. And I'm not sure if I could have handled that. I feel like I am warring against myself- the self that wants to be reassured, comforted, and made a fuss over... and the self that is longing desperately to finally FORGET. Sometimes I hate myself for feeling that way, but I do. I'm mad, I'm angry, I'm sad, I'm lost, I'm lonely, I'm furious at her, and I'm mad at myself.


And that seems to be the cycle of my life right now. The simple fact of the matter is that I am 28 years old and have absolutely no freakin' idea of who I am. I go back to a line from my favorite movie, In Her Shoes- "without her, I don't make sense".


But I should make sense. I am more than my sister's sister. I am more than my parent's daughter. I am more than so-and so's friend, family, employee, or co-worker. I am those things, but not defined by those labels. The loss of one shouldn't make me lose my sense of self.

Losing Emily made me lose my balance. I used to think I lost my sense of self, but I'm realizing that I never really had the core sense of who I am to begin with. And I don't know where to find it.

I've been going to counseling again. And this time around, I'm actually seeing a licensed therapist. Nothing against counselors, but I think last time left me with more questions than answers. Or to put it bluntly- I was more screwed up than I thought and needed more than band-aid therapy. This is the "I'm going to ask you tough questions and tell you things that aren't necessarily nice to hear, and make you re-hash buried and unpleasant memories, make you feel lousy sometimes, and this isn't going to be butterflies, kittens and lady-bugs, but we are going to deal with this CRAP, and even though it doesn't seem like it now, you will get through this mess" kind of therapy. My therapist asks the hard questions, and doesn't let me get by with a non-answer. Sometimes I don't like her. But I respect her for not giving up on me. I think she won my everlasting respect when in answer to one of my typical self-depreciating humor jabs at myself about being beyond help, she said "Melissa, I like you, but get over yourself. If I thought you were beyond help, I wouldn't waste my time or yours." Talk about putting it in black and white terms. In some ways, I am very much a black or white thinker. Other times I like to think I try to see in color, but really most of the time I am a misplaced free-spirit who wants to see in color, but is too afraid to peek beyond the shades of black and white.

All that to say, she sees through my B.S. and I respect her, and also like her, for that.



I keep thinking that by now I should have moved on. From the outside, I have. I get up every morning, I work, I have friends, I laugh, I brush my teeth, bathe on a regular basis, and only occasionally catch myself having deep philosophical conversations with the cats... I function. I live. But it's that shadow that follows me that I can't quite shake that reminds me in some ways I'm still stuck in a rut. That shadow of Unfair. Sadness. Loss. Death. Reminders. Memories.

I know that death is a part of life. I know that bad things happen for inexplicable reasons. I know that my loss is on some levels a tragedy, and yet on other levels is nothing compared to what some people have suffered. I am not special or alone in my sorrow, but yet I'm still marked by that shadow of "One who has suffered". I'm a card-carrying member of the Grief Bites club, but I don't want the perks of membership.

What I want most is what I can't have....

.....the end of the story. To see how it all turns out in the end.

One More Day ~ Mary's Blog

In the two years, 10 months, and 15 days I've spent trying to process grief, loss, and Emily... this blog post pretty much says it all.

One More Day

15 Words or Less Photo Poetry ~ Frozen Tundra

Frozen tundra

I’ve reached the edge

where the horizon bends

touches, then blends,

merging light with

frozen earth

15 Words or Less Photo Poetry ~ Escape

Escape

Spinning, twirling,
stretching, aching
emerging
Changed,
into a world
where nothing
touches me

But Grace

Lots of awesome poems this week- be sure to read through the others!

Hello blog, it's me...

I feel like I did when I was a kid and I ignored my journals for a period of time. I'd stop writing and then when I picked up the pen I wasn't sure if I should play catch-up with everything I'd missed, or start with whatever the thing was that had prompted me to pick up the pen again.

I've been avoiding writing. I've told myself I'm too busy, I don't have the time in the evenings, I don't have anything new or interesting to say, and weekends are too hectic to waste time on a computer. But the truth of the matter is that writing makes me confront my demons, and sometimes it's easier to push all that to the side and continue merrily along in ingorance.
Or denial.
But the thing is, that only works for so long until eventually it reaches a point where it threatens to erupt into what my friend Diana so eloquently calls... emotional vomit.

Writing soothes my soul. I don't like to talk. I process my thoughts slower than most people, I think. Writing gives me the time and opportunity to sort through my thought process, to find exactly what I want to say, and more times than not- I usually find my answer to whatever I'm wrestling with by the time I'm through.

So why stop? Because sometimes there are answers I don't want to hear, and lessons that I don't want to learn, and recongizing a problem means that I can no longer continue in blissfull ignorance and I actually have to DO something to change it.

And that's not always easy.

So if you're still hanging with me... bear with me. I'm still processing...

15 Words or Less Photo Poetry

A thousand reflections

Ships on a shallow sea

littering the ground

…losing sight of me

Reflections

It was a different kind of Fourth of July for me this year. For the last 4 years, my 4th of July plans involved planning a week-long trip to Columbia to celebrate Rachel’s birthday. Her birthday’s on the 8th, and with the three day holiday weekend, it was always convenient to come down that weekend. It was a little different this year since I’m now here on a permanent basis.

I’ve come to love fireworks. There’s just something about leaning your head back and watching the brilliant bursts of color against the night sky. I could watch them for hours. And then I look at the faces of some of the people I love most in the world, with the colors of the fireworks reflecting in their eyes, and I feel like everything is almost perfect.

Until I think of the one person who I miss more than anything. Last year when we watched the fireworks, I sat there with tears rolling down my face, and the song “somewhere out there” playing through my head. (The song is from an American Tale, the movie where the little mouse is separated from his family, and he and his sister are hundreds of miles apart, yet staring up at the sky and singing this song. Total heart-breaker) This year… same thing happened. I’m not sure what it is. I don’t have any strong memories of watching fireworks with her. I associate the 4th of July with Lauren, not Emily, just because it’s become a tradition that we spend it together. I’m not even sure if Emily even liked fireworks to be perfectly honest. But something about staring up into the vastness of the sky makes me wonder if somehow, she’s looking down at the same sky I am. If she sees the same brilliant colors bursting in the sky, or if she can see the reflection of them in the tears running down my face, and if she knows just how desperately I miss her.

Which I know is highly unlikely. Yet somehow, staring up at the sky and even thinking of the possibility, in all of it's improbability, is a comfort enough.

Somewhere Out There
written by James Horner, Barry Mann, Cynthia Weil

Somewhere out there beneath the pale moonlight
Someone's thinking of me and loving me tonight

Somewhere out there someone's saying a prayer
That we'll find one another in that big somewhere out there

And even though I know how very far apart we are
It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star

And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby
It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky

Somewhere out there if love can see us through
Then we'll be together somewhere out there
Out where dreams come true

Wonder Why ~ 15 Words or Less Photo Poetry

Eventually I'm going to get around to writing something on here of substance... but for today, it's just another poetry day.






Wonder Why

trained eyes
searching skies
striving to unlock
mysteries.
meanwhile,
on earth defiled
life remains
unsolved.

Courage ~ 15 Words or Less Photo Poetry

Courage
arms reaching

fingers grasping

painstakingly

breaking through

the barriers

beyond shifting sands

freedom awaits.

hearts and trees and memories

I opened an e-mail from my dad this morning that brought back a flood of memories. He sent a copy of a letter he received from the neighbors/friends that lived next door to my grandparents for as long as I can remember. I think they had at least 30 kids, or at least it seemed like that. Between the cousins and the neighbor kids there was never a shortage of playmates when we went to visit.

My grandparents have a beautiful red cedar tree in their front yard. The kind of tree that is every kids dream climbing tree. It has branches low enough to make a small child feel like king/queen of the world, and branches that reach higher for the more daring souls. That tree's had three generations of Norman's swinging from it's branches. Actually, probably four because I'm sure my pop-pop climbed a branch or two. It's always been a fixture at my grandparent's house.

After the heavy winter this year, one of the branches broke from the weight of the snow. The Capaldi's helped to cut down the branch, and this is what she sent us:

I just cried when I saw this. The note that she sent talked about how she felt the heart represented the love between my grandparents, the love for their family, and for their neighbors. It brought back some bittersweet memories. And the thought of that tree breaking kind of breaks my heart. I love trees- there's a beauty about them that's always fascinated me. But the beauty of that heart in the branch is a perfect symbol of my grandparents. The thought that struck me about the photo was that sometimes the thing that threatens to break and destroy you, like the heavy winter snow, is actually what allows the hidden beauty to shine through.

Beauty is found in so many places- in hearts and trees, and in memories. I hope that tree survives for many more generations to come, broken places and all.

15 Words or Less Photo Poetry ~ Convienence

Convienence

turn a handle,

push a button

never think twice,

the water flows...

taken for granted

The past few weeks have been quite a whirlwind. Within a week after being laid off, I had an interview, was hired, and started working at a new company- all in the span of about two days. I'm incredibly thankful and grateful- so far I absolutely love this place. It keeps me busy, and the days have flown by. I'm already halfway into my fourth week there. I know they say everything happens for a reason. Typically I hate that phrase. But for whatever reason the other job happened, I sure am glad that ending up here was what happened next.


I haven't been hanging out on the computer much in the last few weeks. I think that this is the longest I've gone without facebook since I signed up for it. And you know what? I really don't miss it all that much. I never realized just how much of my time was being spent on facebook. I still try and catch up with my favorite blogs, but usually all I want to do in the evenings is go to sleep! I've wanted to come up with something interesting and profound to write, but I seem to have a case of blogger's block again. And in some ways, the story never changes. I still miss Emily. Sometimes I wonder if the story ever changes, or if this is the way it's going to be forever. I don't know if reaching that place of somewhat acceptance is healing or just giving up fighting against it.


I have found myself thinking about Emily alot. So many things remind me of her. Laurie and I went to the mall a couple of weekends ago. (Which we have quickly discovered is not a good idea. We are definitely a dangerous duo when it comes to shopping). One store in particular makes my credit card shriek as soon as we walk in the door. This store sells the best jeans EVER. After the 5th person told me how great they made my rear end look, I was sold. Seriously. The clothes border a little on the funky side. It's actually the kind of store Emily would have fallen in love with. Loud colors, bright patterns, and all kinds of funky. Mostly stuff that I would never consider trying on in a hundred million thousand years. I have definitely fallen into the world of grown-up, conservative clothes. In otherwords... somewhat boring. But the one sales girl is so cute, you can't help but humor her and try the stuff on anyway. And as I stood in the dressing room in a hot pink shirt with black embroidered angel wings, and blue jeans with silver threaded seams, completely out of my comfort zone, and feeling like a fool, I looked in the mirror and saw Emily. People said all the time how much we looked alike. When we were younger, I could see it. But as we got older, I couldn't really see the resemblance. Maybe it was the fact that I was wearing something that I could totally see my sister in. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was wishful thinking. But for a split second, all I could see was Emily's face. Then it was gone. Maybe it was just a quick reminder of how much she still is very much with me.


I bought the shirt and the silver threaded jeans. I have no idea where I will ever wear it. But it's a little reminder of Emily. A little reminder to let go and have some fun once in awhile. Those kind of reminders I can deal with.

Inner Angst ~ 15 Words or Less Photo Poetry

Inner Angst

thorny exterior
shouts "stay away"
yet secretly I yearn
for you to ...

stay anyway.

Catching up

It's been a very strange time. In the last three weeks I've started a job, marked the passing of the 2nd anniversary of Emily's death, went to the beach with Laurie and Rachel, celebrated my 27th birthday, and then found out that the company I was working for hired someone else while I was gone.

I feel like I'm really not quite sure where to start, and with what. Right after I posted my blog about the cutting, my computer cord fried and I was without a computer for several days. I never really got to acknowledge the comments that so many people left for me. Forgive the silence, and know that I treasure every word written.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the job situation. One of the pitfalls of working through a temp agency is that the employer doesn't necessarily have to give you a reason why they don't think you're a good fit. There's a little more to the story than that, as there usually is, but what's done is done, and there's not much sense whining about it anymore. It wasn't a good fit for me either, and I'm just praying that something else that will be comes along soon.

In someways, I'm almost glad our annual beach trip happens to be around the time of Emily's death. I don't know what it is about the ocean that makes me feel closer to her, but that's where her memory comes alive to me the most. I can think of her and the knot around my heart loosens just a little. Perhaps this sounds corny, but staring out into an endless sea gives me a greater appreciation for everything that I do have. Maybe it's the feeling of being so insignificant when you think about the big picture. Whatever it is, I come away from the beach feeling restored.

I purposely left my computer at home for the week we were gone. Which is a first for me. Usually I find myself going through some kind of withdrawl after a few days. Even when I was in Poland I made sure I got my internet fix at the local internet cafe. I guess I kind of wanted to prove to myself that I could go without it. And you know what? I really didn't miss it all that much. Instead of staying up late plugged into my computer, I went to bed so I could get up with the sunrise. Instead of checking up on the latest facebook status, I spent more time checking in with the two people closest to me. It was- refreshing.

But now I find myself once again with the weekdays stretching ahead of me, plugged into my laptop sending out applications again. Ironic.

It's been a strange three weeks. I hope the next three are a little better.

Two years, and two days

I've spent the last two days trying to find the words to write. As usual, the more you force it, the harder it is. I'm still not sure what I want to say that I haven't said before. I still can't believe that it's been two years. This day hurts the most. Holidays are bittersweet, but there's so much else going on that it's easy not to focus completely on missing Emily. I miss her on her birthday, but quite frankly she drove me so crazy with her incessant obsessing about her birthday that ignoring the day is not a new concept for me. But the first of April? All I could do was think about her. Sometimes it was a happy memory, but mostly I just missed her. So much has happened in the last two years, and it's still hard to wrap my mind around the fact that it is happening without her. And it still breaks my heart when I go a few days without thinking about her. When I can't remember what her voice sounds like, or the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, or the way she'd pretend to play the role of the "dumb blonde" even though all of us saw right through the act, but we went along with it because she was Emily and she was cute.

Damn, I miss her.

I don't like growing up without her. I'm going to be 27 in two days. I can just imagine the cracks about how I'm getting close to 30, and it makes me want to cry. She'll forever be 20 in my mind, and I just wonder what she would have been like at 23. And when I'm 34 what she would have been like turning 30. I wonder if we would have become closer by then. Sometimes I fear that we might not have ever worked things out. It's the open-ended wonderings that keep me up at night.

Last year was not a good year for me. I spent most of it sunk in a depression up to my eyeballs and doing my best to hide it from everyone I love. When I see my scars, I see Emily. Sometimes that's a comfort. Sometimes it makes me furious that I allowed myself to fall into that kind of coping situation. I want to blame her, because it's easier than blaming myself. I'm furious at her one moment, and miss her so much the next I can't breathe. I go a few days without thinking about her and sometimes it's a relief to forget.

This year I think I've finally started to figure out who I am. Who I am without Emily, and yet who I am with the memory of her still with me. I find that I look at things with a different perspective than I would have before. I value and cherish my friendships and relationships more, even if I'm still learning how to show it. I've been overwhelmingly blessed with friendships through a blog that I probably never would have started. I've realized that while moving away was one of the best things I've ever done, you can't run away from the memories completely. I've found in Lauren a different kind of sisterhood that's helped to heal the broken spots that I thought were beyond repair. I've learned that no matter how often I yell and scream at God, He still hasn't given up on me. And it's sinking in that He never will.

I'm not the same broken person I was this time a year ago. But yet I know I'll never be truly whole, because there will always be a broken piece that is my sister.

And I'm learning to be okay with carrying that brokenness. I've finally realized it can't be fixed. So instead I heal around it, face the broken part when I need to, and build around it instead of over it. And I carry her with me, because she's part of me.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;
and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)
i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) ~ee cummings

Beauty from the Ashes

Beauty. Ah beauty. It jumps out at you from the covers of magazines, beckons from the cosmetic department, and mocks you as you stand in front of a closet bulging with clothes that someday you vow you WILL fit into again. It's the taunting voice in your head that whispers all the ways you will never measure up.

Beauty isn't always pretty.

Sarah Markley's blog this week is about beauty. Five women have written posts on her blog about beauty. And she asked her readers to write a post on their blogs about their thoughts on the subject. Of course, a million topics sprung to mind- my love/hate relationship with my mirror. That I will never come to terms with the fact that I am almost six feet tall and I hate it. My ongoing battle with my weight. That no amount of makeup will ever make me feel pretty. And don't even get me started on my hair.... But the one thing that has affected me most kept tugging at me. And it wouldn't go away. Everything else I tried to write about seemed to fall apart. The post below wasn't easy to write. It's ugly, it's scary, it's not pretty. My family and friends don't know this about me, and it's probably going to make the people closest to me upset to read about this. But still I felt compelled to tell it. And one thing I've learned is that ignoring that still small voice in your soul is never a good idea. I've carried this secret long enough.

My arm is ugly. It's a mess of scars. Some long-healed and some still fresh. No, it's not the result of an accident, or surgery, or an illness.

They're self-inflicted. I was, I am, a cutter.

I wear long sleeves year round. On the rare occasion I can't wear long sleeves, I'm always conscious of keeping my arm hidden. Lying and secrecy has become an art.

When my little sister died two years ago at the age of 20, my life fell apart. I never got the chance to speak the things I'd left unspoken for far too many years. My thought was to shut her out before she hurt me again. The wounds of the past were too difficult, and I was tired of bearing the brunt of her anger and her depression. I let myself get steeped into resentment and anger and I built a wall between us. When she died, the guilt of that fractured relationship consumed me and overwhelmed me. Guilt is a powerful thing. It can take over your life. It creeps into your heart, thoughts, and wreaks havoc on your relationships.

With the first drag of the blade came a sense of overwhelming relief. "This hurts- alot. But I know why it hurts. The pain is real, it's controlled, and I can be the one to control it. I alone can make it start and I decide when to make it stop." That's how it started. When it became too much, I cut. I've been through counseling for it, and even though it's better, it's still a reality I struggle with all the time. And according to my therapist, there's no magic "cure". It's just a matter of finding another way to cope. For me, sometimes just seeing the scars is enough. Sometimes it's not.

My pain's been hidden- by my own doing. My cuts bleed in silence and shame. There's nothing beautiful about it. Beauty has no place in scars. In blood. In tears.

Or does it?

Can there be beauty in heartache?

When I reach for the blade and instead set it aside, there's beauty in healing.

When I receive an e-mail from a friend who wanted to check in on me, there's beauty in compassion and understanding.

When I seek solace from my cousin, there's beauty in being comforted.

When I look for relief from God instead of from a blade, there's beauty in grace.

When I tell my story on a blog, there's beauty in freedom.

My arm is ugly. My pain is ugly. Grief is ugly. My sister's death nearly destroyed me. But beauty can still rise from the ashes, and beauty is what transforms my scars.

I am a work in progress. But I'm not giving in. My scars won't define me, but they are still a part of me. It's a map of where I've been, and will someday show how far I've come.

And that is what makes me beautiful.

Complexity ~ 15 Words or Less Photo Poetry

Under the Microscope:

Upon reflection
there's more to me
than meets the eye

take the time
to look.

Ernie

Someone once said that after you lost an important person in your life, losing a pet pales in comparison.

FYI? That's complete crap.

It's different yes. And the sadness at losing a pet comes from a different perspective. But it still hurts.

My cat Ernie had to be put down this morning. The poor little guy's suffered from kidney problems for just about all of his 15 years. I think a part of me knew when I saw him last at Christmas that he probably wouldn't be around much longer. And in a way, I already had to say my goodbye when I moved and he stayed with my parents. But it still hurts, and I still miss him. Lauren has two cats that I love dearly, but they're hers. Even though I couldn't bring him here with me, he was still "mine". And now he's gone.

In a way, he's another little broken piece of Emily I've got to let go. He was our childhood cat. He was still a link to my sister, and now that's gone too.

Losing a pet does pale in comparison to losing a person. But one thing I've learned over the last two years is that there's actually no comparison in grief. It can't be measured against any other kind of loss. It's like trying to measure how high up is. It simply can't be done.
And I'll sucker punch the first person that tells me that losing a pet should be easier after what I've been through.

Broken Pieces

I find myself missing Emily tonight. The kind of missing that comes in waves.... it's the one minute I want to stare at her picture forever, and the next minute it hurts too much to see her smile. It's the I'd give anything to hear her voice, and the sudden gut wrenching sucker punch when I realize I can't remember what her voice sounds like anymore. It's the catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror and seeing her instead of me, and then being torn between looking for it again and wanting to smash the mirror to a million broken pieces.

I used a little of her perfume this morning and almost cried at the thought that it'll be gone soon.

I still haven't figured out what tense to talk about her in- was or is?

I was online today and wondered how pathetic it would be if I ordered myself a bouquet of daisies just because they remind me of her.

I find myself wanting to cry to someone, but sometimes seeing the other person's helplessness at my tears only makes me feel worse.

I feel depressed because I sometimes still feel guilty, and I feel guilty for being depressed.

As the 1st of April gets closer, the knot in my stomach tightens just a little more.

I fear that I will always dread spring, and I hate that feeling. But yet I also fear the moment when I don't because it means losing another little piece of her.

It hurts to hold onto all the broken pieces, but they're too deeply embedded to let go.

Emily- I miss you.

Slow Fade ~ 15 Words or Less Poetic Challenge

Slow Fade

sunlight fading
on the vastness of the sea
whispering goodbye
as you flow away from me

The comment about my poem this week was that it was beautiful and sad. I guess it is kind of melancholy. The ocean makes me think of Emily. I don't know if it's the sheer endlessness of the water, the rhythm of the waves, the solitude, or just simply because the last time I talked to her was at the beach. Whatever the reason, Emily and the ocean are synonymous in my mind.


There were alot of great poems tied to this picture. Check them out!

15 words or less Poetic Challenge

I'd gotten out of the habit of coming up with something for Laura Salas's 15 Words or Less Poetic Challenge. The poem doesn't have to be about the picture specifically, just something that the picture reminds you of.

Thought I'd give this week's a go...

Suspended

hold your breath
suspended in time
waiting in anticipation
barely breathing
lest it sway the outcome

Childhood is the Kingdom where Nobody dies

(I'm spending a rainy afternoon clearing out the blogs I had saved in my "drafts" folder, and I came across this one. I wrote it back in June. No idea why I never hit publish. It's interesting to re-read the things I've written. In a way it gives me a different perspective on, well, myself. I think at the time I was feeling a little too vulnerable to send it out. One of the bloggers I frequent has a quote posted on her blog by Anais Nin: We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection." That's somewhat fitting in my case. So I decided to send it out.)


June 9th, 7PM
I had a dream last night that we were at our old house in Alabama. I can't tell you what the dream was about, who was in it, or if it was even a good or bad dream. I just remember seeing the house. I've been back to Alabama twice since we moved away. Both times I drove by our old house. Both times I stopped in front and thought about asking whoever lived there if I could come in. But I was too afraid to see the changes. I think sometimes it's easier to remember the way things were, instead of what they end up being.

But now, I kind of wish I could see the house in a way. I want to close my eyes and see the ghosts. I want to sit in front of the fireplace and run my fingers over the singed spots from the sparks. I want to see us horsing around on the floor. I used to lay on my back and stick my feet up. Emily would lay on my feet and I'd "fly" her through the air. I want to remember the night of the "Blizzard of 1993" when the power went out and we all had to sleep in the living room. Emily and I fought over who got to use the Turkish blanket, and then the dog ended up sleeping on it anyway. I want to know if the rocks we painted are still in the front yard. I want to sit in the middle of the floor and picture the sea of Barbie dolls and accessories that engulfed the living room. I want to run my hand across the mantle where we hung our Christmas stockings. I want to open the closet door and laugh at the mismatched sqaure from when I set the carpet on fire. I want to remember Emily that way all the time. I wish Emily had stayed that way. I wish I had stayed that way. I want to tell the two ghost girls to stay in those moments forever.

I want to... I want to....

I want to go back to my childhood.

I've never had that desire before. I've never wished I could be a certain age again. But I've never had to, not until I was faced with having to get older without Emily. I wish I could go back to before life became complicated. Before Emily became angry. Before we started hating each other and she was still the loveable ditz that drove me crazy, but she was too darn cute to stay angry with.

One of the books I'm reading has an excerpt from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay that struck me when I read it. :

"Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies."

I miss my kingdom.

I haven't felt this melancholy in awhile. And when I started writing this blog- my intent was a funny story. I'm not sure what made it morph into melancholy. I guess that's just part of living with two dominant sides. The side that wants to move on, to smooth the ragged edges of the hole in my heart, and the side that wants to stay in bed and weep for my sister, that's afraid of letting the hole close lest it forgets.

Light and Shadows

Present and Past

What is and What should be

I guess in all honesty- even if I could go back to my childhood, I don't think I would. Kingdoms don't last forever.

But I still miss it.

As I was writing this, I did a search on Google to make sure I got the quote from the poem right. And found the poem in it's entirety.
Whoa.

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certian age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripèd bag, or a jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.

And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it's much too small, because she won't curl up now:
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.

But you do not wake up a month from then, two months,
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh, God!

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters, - mothers and fathers don't die
And if you have said, "For heaven's sake, must you always be kissing a person?"
Or, "I do wish to gracious you'd stop tapping on the window with your thimble!"
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you're busy having_fun,
Is plenty of time to say, "I'm sorry, mother."
To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always said
Tea was such a comfort.

Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries; they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide back into their chairs.
Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.

Waiting

I've been avoiding my blog lately. Actually, I've been in such a funk lately, I've been trying to avoid practically everything.

You know that feeling you get when something's gnawing at you, and you just don't know how, or don't want, to deal with it? That's been me.

Job searching is the pits. I absolutely hate it. I dread logging onto the computer and clicking on the job pages. It's draining. It's tiring. It's depressing. And I'm sick of it. I just want this phase of my life to be over. I want to be employed. I hate that I dread Sunday afternoons because it means that Monday is coming and I have yet another empty week looming ahead. I am sick of my own company. I want to complain about having to get up early, and I want to count down the hours until 5pm again. I don't want to have to worry about how long unemployment benefits will last, and I don't want a guilt trip every time I want to splurge on a coffee from Starbucks. I just want to return to a sense of normalcy.

I do love being here. I love everything about it. I love the fact that I've only had to pull out the heavy winter coat twice so far this winter. I love the slower pace and the easy-going temperaments of the South. Someone at Kroger the other day told me I had a beautiful smile. And living with Lauren and Rachel is probably one of the best things that's ever happened to me. By all accounts, I should be deliriously happy.

It's just this stupid "unemployment" cloud hanging over my head that's messing everything up. Because the fact of the matter is, I feel absolutely useless. I know, I know. There are plenty of things I could be doing. I could be working part time. I could be volunteering somewhere. My mother thinks I should write a book. But I just can't get my heart into any of it because I feel so unsettled, and just out and out worried.

Two weeks ago, I went on an interview for an admin position for a manufacturing company. Then the next week, I got called back in for a second interview. I really thought I nailed it. Thought I was a shoo-in for the position, and that I'd already be working by now.

I still haven't heard whether I got it. And it is driving me absolutely insane. I'm to the point now where I almost don't care what the answer is. I just want to know. No, that's not entirely true. I really want this job.

The waiting is really coloring my attitude, and my outlook. Poor Lauren- I've been on a stretch of highs and lows for the last two weeks. I'm surprised she isn't ready to send me packing yet. My parents are probably rolling their eyes when they see a text message from me, whining about "why haven't they called me yet." I obviously am a firm believer in the whole "misery loves company" theory and am attempting to force it upon all those that I come in contact with.

In the big scheme of things- it could be worse. I've only been searching for a little over three months, and there were three major holidays thrown into the mix. Unemployment is still available, so long as I can get the extension. I have a place to stay, and a family that's not going to let me get kicked out into the street.

But I'm disheartened. And I don't know how to fix that. I've heard every pep talk, heard enough "something will come along"s, and tried every positive thinking method there is. Frankly, it just ain't cutting it. I never was one for platitudes. I'm too much of a realist for my own good I think. Or maybe too much of a pessimist. I wish I wasn't like this. I wish I could really believe what Lauren and my mother keep telling me- that they know something will come along soon. I guess it's a good thing that I have optimistic people in my life. Maybe their good attitudes are enough to counteract my pessimistic one.

And so there's nothing left to do but wait and try not to drive everyone batty with my mood swings. I'll wait, wondering if staring hard enough at the phone will make it ring on command.

Perhaps God is using this time to teach me some much needed patience. Or perhaps He wants to see just how close I'll get to going off the deep end. Or maybe He's using me to teach my family how to love someone at their worst.

I'm kidding- I know He doesn't work like that. But I sure do wish He'd help hurry this job thing along.

Meanwhile, I'll still be sitting here.

Waiting.

Happy Birthday Heather

Facebook reminded me that today is Heather's birthday. I am the self-proclaimed Queen of Birthdays. I love them. I love celebrating them, I love finding the perfect card, I love decorating people's offices, and I love baking. I rarely, if ever, forget a friend's birthday. Except Heather. I don't know why, but I've always had a mental block when it came to her. Last year I woke up in a panic that morning because I'd completely forgotten. This time it snuck up on me too. I kind of wish I'd not logged onto Facebook at all today... now I miss her all the more. Her husband is keeping her account active- which I think is good. But every once in awhile he'll change her profile picture, or add something else. It kind of breaks my heart everytime I see her name when I log in. It's like in that fleeting moment, I've forgotten that she's died.

I didn't realize her death would hit me this hard. I find myself still picking up the phone to send her a text message. I want to call her and tell her to pray about the whole job search thing. I miss going through it without her- Heather was overbearing sometimes, but she definitely was the one person you could count on to keep track of you. After I was laid off, she was one of the few people who made sure I wasn't forgotten. Which is kind of why I'm kicking myself that I forgot her birthday, yet again.

So when I pick Rachel up from school today, we are heading straight to Starbucks. Heather loved coffee as much as I do. We'd argue over whose turn it was to make the next pot of flavored coffee. When I smell it, I think of her. So I am going to get the biggest coffee they have, load it up with flavor shots, and toast my beloved friend. I only wish she was here to share it.

Happy Birthday Heather- I miss you.

Munchkin

Laurie and I spent the weekend at the beach. She had off yesterday, Rachel was spending the weekend with her dad, so Uncle John and Teri invited us to the beach house for the weekend. It started off great. Until Saturday morning when Laurie got a call from one of our neighbors- she'd hit our cat Munchkin. Munchkin's 19... and he has a bad habit of walking in front of our cars. Our neighbor was backing up, saw him, and stopped. I guess she thought he'd moved, but she ended up backing over his leg. So she called asking Laurie where to take him to the vet. We figured worst case scenario was that he'd have to be in a cast. But then the vet called and said he'd fractured his leg in three places, but that his bladder had ruptured and he was bleeding internally. At his age, he wouldn't have survived any kind of surgery, so we had to put him down. Laurie was so distraught. Rachel and her dad went to the vet and they were with him when they put him to sleep. Then they buried him in our backyard.

I felt so bad for Laurie. I think this is only the second time I've ever seen her really cry. And it's such a helpless feeling, because you know that there is absolutely nothing you can say to make it better. She finally told me on Monday morning that she feels so guilty for going to the beach. That maybe if we had stayed home, Munchkin wouldn't have been hit. I wanted to tell her not to feel guilty. That even if our neighbor hadn't hit him this weekend, it could have very well been one of us that did. I wanted to tell her that there was no way she could have known this would happen. But I couldn't... because I know what it's like to struggle with that kind of "what if" guilt. And I'm telling you- it's the worst kind. I know what it's like to drive yourself nuts with "if only I had done this" or "if only I'd said that". And I know what it feels like to hear people tell you that you can't blame yourself. Even though you know it's not your fault... you can't change that feeling. And people telling you not to feel that way doesn't make it easier. But at the same time, I hate seeing Laurie struggle with those feelings.

When we got home, Adam had buried Munchkin too close to the pond in our backyard. The pond floods when it rains, and Laurie was worrying about something happening to his grave. Not only that, but he was also in the middle of the yard. I swear, men don't think things through. She wanted him buried on higher ground and closer to the fence. Someplace where we could put a little marker or something. And someplace where he wouldn't be walked over, or mowed over in the summer. Then she started crying, saying she didn't think she'd be able to move him herself. I told her I'd do it. She didn't want me to, she was afraid it'd be too hard on me too. But I insisted. Laurie and I are alike in alot of ways- stubborness being one of them. But I think I have her beat. I don't often put my foot down, but I out-stubborned her last night.

I managed to do it this morning. It was hard- I've never had to bury a pet before. Once I got the new hole dug, I had to un-dig the first grave. As soon as I sunk my shovel into the ground, it was a muddy mess. I was so angry at Adam- why on earth did he bury him in the mud? I swear men don't think. I was afraid to keep using the shovel... I didn't want to hit the box. So I dug him out by hand. By that point, I didn't think I could do it. I was afraid of what I'd see when I got to the box. I didn't think I could pull him out of the ground. But even though the last thing I wanted to do was unbury this little cat, the memory of the look on Laurie's face was somehow harder to bear. It's funny how you can find the strength to do the impossible for the people you love most. And fury has a way of motivating you too. Let me just say it's a good thing Adam wasn't anywhere near my shovel at the moment.

I miss that little cat too. It's awfully quiet around here without him. Even though I've only been here for a few months, I've been coming to Lauren's for the last five years. I got attached to the little guy. I came home this afternoon, and really missed him trotting out to greet me at my car.

But mostly my heart hurts for Laurie. I'm probably driving her nuts with my hovering. I've never seen Lauren this sad, and it's a terribly helpless feeling to watch someone go through it. People who aren't animal people don't always understand how attached you can get. But they really are like family. Even though it's not the same, watching her reminds me a little of what I went through with Emily. Grief is grief- and it doesn't always have to be for a person.

*sigh*

Winter ~ Wordless Wednesday