Hello, my love
It has been a year. One year ago, my heart cracked and then broke as you slipped away. What a terrible night. That night will always haunt me with your kindness, your strength and courage, which all inspire me, and always will.
I thought, for the first few months, that I would not make it without you. I felt myself dying a little, day by day. I took care of myself, inside I just felt empty.
My longing for you ached like the hunger of a starving child. I noticed, as the months passed, your visits bolstered me. You nourished me with your soft presence and your happiness, so long forgotten in our lives, was a relief to see in our strange revels.
Of course, I have tried to write everything I can about the beauty of you, your spirit and your heart, your strength and your joy in life. I think you have approved, so far. I have tried to document everything that you made special in our lives, too. I think I have a good start...
I have been sorting my writing for your book. I know it would never be written if you still breathed, as modest as you are. But it will be. I need to have something of you outlast me. It was always my belief you would be there after me.
Sometimes I am glad, because this life beyond yours is so hard. I imagine it's what yours without me would have been like. I wouldn't want this for you, really.
I have so much to thank you for, my love. I will spend the next two weeks, between now and our anniversary, recalling them in letters to you.
Until the next letter, then. I miss you,
Me
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Marcie in Hong Kong - Visit
Marcie visited last night, but I was too conscious and couldn't go with the flow. Still, there was a moment at the end... far too brief.
She continues to console me, but I still wake and fall apart after her appearances. For a little while, until the comfort of her presence and the specialness of that connection wraps itself around me like a hug.
More later.
She continues to console me, but I still wake and fall apart after her appearances. For a little while, until the comfort of her presence and the specialness of that connection wraps itself around me like a hug.
More later.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The guardian and the preparation
Seamus has taken to sitting on Marcie's table of memorial, alongside her container. This began a short time ago. Usually, he slept under her. It is almost as if he has to be even closer. Of course, my dreams have accelerated, too.
I wonder if his have. At any rate, a few pictures:
I will post pictures of her recontainment another day. I sleep and prepare for the journey for now, folks. Good night.
I wonder if his have. At any rate, a few pictures:
I will post pictures of her recontainment another day. I sleep and prepare for the journey for now, folks. Good night.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
A little tiny moment
NOTE: Reference to fooling around (brief).
There was a muggy summer day in Humboldt County. Marcie had been to Wildberries, leaving without me and coming back in the misty heat. She slipped into the room as I toiled at the computer, pulling together a piece on The Dunes.
"Honey, are you hungry?" she asked.
I had heard her come in and kept working. But I stopped and considered the question. As was usual when I was working, my mind over-thought everything. Would this be a menu request afterward? Does she want to go have breakfast?
Her hand slid over my neck cool and soft and she began to massage me. I took a deep breath and enjoyed the sensation of her touch on me, the smell of her hair as she leaned down to read my work, and the smell of blueberries.
I saw in her other hand a little plate of blueberries, strawberries and bananas. A "donut stick," an unhealthful favorite of mine, was there, too. I smiled and licked my lips. She turned and kissed me, smiling.
It was a good, content, quiet kiss. Seamus did not even stir in my lap. Afterward, the story seemed clearer and I rushed through it with ease.
"You need to eat, Mr. Reporter," she said. She fed me the fruit and the donut playfully whenever I paused.
When I was done, she smiled as I saved and shook her head. I looked up quizzically.
"Oh, honey," she said. "It was a great story, I'm sure they'll like it. You're really good at this."
I was very proud, because she was a discerning reader. We fooled around, then bathed each other in cool water, and lounged the rest of the day in front of fans, watching television. It was just a simple, good day.
I miss those. I cherish that one in particular.
There was a muggy summer day in Humboldt County. Marcie had been to Wildberries, leaving without me and coming back in the misty heat. She slipped into the room as I toiled at the computer, pulling together a piece on The Dunes.
"Honey, are you hungry?" she asked.
I had heard her come in and kept working. But I stopped and considered the question. As was usual when I was working, my mind over-thought everything. Would this be a menu request afterward? Does she want to go have breakfast?
Her hand slid over my neck cool and soft and she began to massage me. I took a deep breath and enjoyed the sensation of her touch on me, the smell of her hair as she leaned down to read my work, and the smell of blueberries.
I saw in her other hand a little plate of blueberries, strawberries and bananas. A "donut stick," an unhealthful favorite of mine, was there, too. I smiled and licked my lips. She turned and kissed me, smiling.
It was a good, content, quiet kiss. Seamus did not even stir in my lap. Afterward, the story seemed clearer and I rushed through it with ease.
"You need to eat, Mr. Reporter," she said. She fed me the fruit and the donut playfully whenever I paused.
When I was done, she smiled as I saved and shook her head. I looked up quizzically.
"Oh, honey," she said. "It was a great story, I'm sure they'll like it. You're really good at this."
I was very proud, because she was a discerning reader. We fooled around, then bathed each other in cool water, and lounged the rest of the day in front of fans, watching television. It was just a simple, good day.
I miss those. I cherish that one in particular.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Her Little Ways: That quiet whisper
Not every special moment in my time Marcie was some gigantic occasion or breakthrough event. My tendency, I believe, is always to reflect on those things I know were grand and now will simply not be. But I often miss, as I have noted, the little things she did even more.
If our love was a house and the pillars of it built by her included her charity, her ferocity, her wit and her tender ministrations, then her ways with me carved intricate inlays and myriad baroque embellishments on them. One of them I miss is the quiet, beckoning whisper.
Marcie appreciated simple moments of beauty or joy in the everyday. She also loved to share them when she could.
I shared her appreciation. However, I was always focused on a project or a plan and not often aware of them. I could also be prickly when suddenly barged in on and interrupted. But Marcie learned to get around it.
"Honey..." she would whisper. "Honey, come look at this..."
I could judge what it was by the look on her face and the tone of her voice. Something cute meant she would say it with a rising voice at the end, with mischievous cuteness being marked with a knowing half-chuckle. Her eyes would roll.
If it involved something that could be ruined by too much noise, she would whisper her entreaty with a little falloff in volume at the end and a gentle shush. "Honey, come look at this... shh... quietly."
She would hold my hand or continuously crook her finger, turning, as she crept on her target, sometime a bird on the porch, or Seamus busily working on solving a locked door or a closed box of food. Sometimes it was a wild animal.
Those little words were soon used to interrupt her reading as I became more accustomed to, and attuned to, the same kind of appreciation. She too could suffer from tunnel-vision and a laserlike focus, especially with a new tome.
There were many little moments we enjoyed and shared because of that quiet beckoning.
It was just such a call that drew my attention to a pair of doves nesting in our porch plant on Suncrest Drive. It also brought me a view of a vole enjoying out birdseed and porch in Humboldt.
I cannot count the number of times that we sneaked up on Seamus in the throes of some deviltry, one or the other noticing his cleverness being turned to his whims or wants.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I miss those little words. But this weekend, while I was focused on some online work and paying bills, I felt that weird tingle on my neck I got when she would open my door and wait.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I did not hear the words or see her or anything so direct as much as I was acting on habit. I stood up from the chair I use for the computer desk and quietly walked to the back room, wondering what was going on.
Then I saw.
Seamus was inside a window between the glass and the screen at the back of the house. A few inches away, on the other side of the screen, was a green hummingbird, twittering and peeping at him, hovering.
Seamus chittered at the bird through a mouth full of slobber and the screen, eyes no doubt wide and pupils dilated.
He did not notice me, and I quietly backed out of the room, as she likely would have, not wanting to interfere with his moment. I walked into the bedroom before I realized what I was doing.
All I wanted to say was, quietly, "Honey, come look at this..."
So I did. But who was showing what to whom I can't say.
If our love was a house and the pillars of it built by her included her charity, her ferocity, her wit and her tender ministrations, then her ways with me carved intricate inlays and myriad baroque embellishments on them. One of them I miss is the quiet, beckoning whisper.
Marcie appreciated simple moments of beauty or joy in the everyday. She also loved to share them when she could.
I shared her appreciation. However, I was always focused on a project or a plan and not often aware of them. I could also be prickly when suddenly barged in on and interrupted. But Marcie learned to get around it.
"Honey..." she would whisper. "Honey, come look at this..."
I could judge what it was by the look on her face and the tone of her voice. Something cute meant she would say it with a rising voice at the end, with mischievous cuteness being marked with a knowing half-chuckle. Her eyes would roll.
If it involved something that could be ruined by too much noise, she would whisper her entreaty with a little falloff in volume at the end and a gentle shush. "Honey, come look at this... shh... quietly."
She would hold my hand or continuously crook her finger, turning, as she crept on her target, sometime a bird on the porch, or Seamus busily working on solving a locked door or a closed box of food. Sometimes it was a wild animal.
Those little words were soon used to interrupt her reading as I became more accustomed to, and attuned to, the same kind of appreciation. She too could suffer from tunnel-vision and a laserlike focus, especially with a new tome.
There were many little moments we enjoyed and shared because of that quiet beckoning.
It was just such a call that drew my attention to a pair of doves nesting in our porch plant on Suncrest Drive. It also brought me a view of a vole enjoying out birdseed and porch in Humboldt.
I cannot count the number of times that we sneaked up on Seamus in the throes of some deviltry, one or the other noticing his cleverness being turned to his whims or wants.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I miss those little words. But this weekend, while I was focused on some online work and paying bills, I felt that weird tingle on my neck I got when she would open my door and wait.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I did not hear the words or see her or anything so direct as much as I was acting on habit. I stood up from the chair I use for the computer desk and quietly walked to the back room, wondering what was going on.
Then I saw.
Seamus was inside a window between the glass and the screen at the back of the house. A few inches away, on the other side of the screen, was a green hummingbird, twittering and peeping at him, hovering.
Seamus chittered at the bird through a mouth full of slobber and the screen, eyes no doubt wide and pupils dilated.
He did not notice me, and I quietly backed out of the room, as she likely would have, not wanting to interfere with his moment. I walked into the bedroom before I realized what I was doing.
All I wanted to say was, quietly, "Honey, come look at this..."
So I did. But who was showing what to whom I can't say.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
An Unshared Road
I remember the paths we chose.
We did not always agree.
Sometimes we wandered.
We were never lost.
I joined your soul in long journeys.
We strolled in citadels of the mind,
and hiked the forest of the heart.
We were never lost.
I faced great obstacles with you.
We climbed mountains of tribulation,
took treacherous trails along chasms.
We were never lost.
I never knew where we were going.
We chose anew at each crossroad
and were each others' only guides.
We were never lost.
I don't recognize this place I am in now.
We never wandered in such ruins
and there is no path in the rubble.
I am so very lost.
We did not always agree.
Sometimes we wandered.
We were never lost.
I joined your soul in long journeys.
We strolled in citadels of the mind,
and hiked the forest of the heart.
We were never lost.
I faced great obstacles with you.
We climbed mountains of tribulation,
took treacherous trails along chasms.
We were never lost.
I never knew where we were going.
We chose anew at each crossroad
and were each others' only guides.
We were never lost.
I don't recognize this place I am in now.
We never wandered in such ruins
and there is no path in the rubble.
I am so very lost.
Monday, July 21, 2008
On The Patio
Our dusk was red and yellow again,
It was every summer sunset you ever knew.
The mist of the hose in the smoggy air
made mud of everything except the plants.
They are still there, all the ones you left
the dragon and the gardenias,
the pink geraniums and the elkhorns,
The things Tanya and I repotted.
There are new ones, too.
A sago palm from a friend,
A more delicate one from your work.
They all thrive oblivious next to
pots of my bitter herbs.
They are new life for old.
They are not equal.
Nor am I.
It was every summer sunset you ever knew.
The mist of the hose in the smoggy air
made mud of everything except the plants.
They are still there, all the ones you left
the dragon and the gardenias,
the pink geraniums and the elkhorns,
The things Tanya and I repotted.
There are new ones, too.
A sago palm from a friend,
A more delicate one from your work.
They all thrive oblivious next to
pots of my bitter herbs.
They are new life for old.
They are not equal.
Nor am I.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Conclusion)
I knew Marcie would not settle for an ice cream cake on my birthday, but I also knew that, since she had talked them up so much, she might wait before she pressed. Wait, she did. In the mean time, I decided on the cake I really wanted.
As was typical between us, an impasse meant that we both waited for an advantageous moment before we upset the apple cart. Marcie had one planned.
The week before my birthday saw her tip her hand. Not that she had a choice. Her gift to me arrived with a harried-looking Barbara in tow.
"Oh, honey!" she said. "I didn't know you were home. Well, happy birthday!"
And there he was, a little puff of fur, half asleep and clinging to her dress. Under the closest of observation I took him from her and he mewed in protest.
He was tiny and soft, and as I held him, cupped in my hands, he stood, arched his back and stretched, his little needlenails poking into my palm.
All that Marcie knew was that he fit in one of my hands. "Oh my god, he fits in one hand. How precious is that?" she asked her mother.
Barbara nodded and "mmhmm'd" a little neutrally. I would find out later that Seamus had been in her house for a week, terrorizing Samantha, their older cat, and driving her insane.
"Well, happy birthday ahead of time, Frank," she said, taking her keys and walking back to her little Sprint.
"Thanks, Barbara," I said, smiling at the yet-unnamed and deceptively calm furball in my hands.
"So what is your name?" I asked him.
He looked at me sedately and made a silent meow. His striped chunks of fur and white belly told me little about him, except some possible Maine Coon lineage. But his green eyes were a clue.
Marcie wanted to name her male cats Angus and Fergus, girls would be Talulah Belle and (as was one of her nicknames) Tink. I liked the idea of a good Irish name.
"He doesn't have a name," Marcie said. "You have to name him."
"I think he's a Seamus," I said.
"Seamus," she said. "Oh, honey. I like that name. Like Seamus Heaney, the writer?"
I nodded and Seamus decided to look to the ground. I caught him and we went inside.
We played to his exhaustion with him that afternoon, then Marcie cooked some dinner. She wandered out and smiled, pleased with herself, hands on her hips. Her gift had been a big success. Seamus slept on my shoulder.
"So I have to order you ice cream birthday cake tomorrow," she said. "I hope you like it, honey."
I looked up and smiled. "Well, it's like having cake and ice cream all at once, I guess. Do they have German Chocolate cake versions? That's what I really want."
Her eyes lit up and she shook her head. "Oh, no, honey. They have pretty basic, set recipes with ice cream. It's not really even cake, really."
I feigned thought and then some disappointment. "That's a bummer. I have a craving for some German Chocolate cake with pecans..."
"Oh, I can make you that!" she said, plopping down next to me. "Then we can just buy some ice cream and eat a normal birthday dessert. What do you think?"
She set her hand on my forearm and bit her lower lip. She was stoked.
"That sounds good," I said. "We'll do that instead. I wanted to try your baking, anyways. We can get an ice cream cake some other time."
She clapped her hands a few times and then slapped her thighs as she got up. "I am very excited to bake for you," she said. "I think you're going to love your cake."
She brought dinner, and Seamus woke to wander about begging by our feet. Pieces of chicken slipped off my plate to him "accidentally." It is a continued tradition, of course.
Marcie shook her head as a piece fell from my plate. "So, honey, I am glad you want to celebrate your birthday, and it was sweet of you to say I was the reason you had to celebrate, but why are you so anti-birthday?"
I shrugged and I let it all out. "I will be 24 and I am just finishing my first year of college," I said. "I will be six years behind most of my peers from high school."
She looked at me as if I were insane.
"I am barely on my feet and don't have a solid job, I have to scrape a lot to get by, and some of my friends are already in their careers," I continued. "I just don't feel like I have anything to celebrate, accomplishment-wise. I'm behind."
She looked at me with a look of near-disgust on her face and rolled her eyes. Her fork clattered on her plate.
"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," she started. "You're a straight-A student, you have two jobs at the college, you are respected, you are a member of student government and you work on the side, too."
She picked at her sun-dried tomatoes and bread, then looked over, shaking her head, "You saw a lot of the world and you have lived and struggled and overcome more crap than almost anyone who goes straight to college ever will."
"I don't care who graduates before me," she added. "Ive been to Europe twice, had a lot of fun and worked and paid my own way through. Nobody gets any credit but me. And when you finish, you'll be able to say the same thing."
I leaned over and I kissed her as she turned to continue after gnoshing a bit on her dinner. "Thank you," I said.
I had heard a lot of the ideas of my being behind from a generation of people who thought door closed at certain times. Some of those gems I remember still, like "No college degree by 22? It's too late to go back..." and "Still in school at 23? You must be a professional student..."
Luckily I was with a woman with a sense of adventure, a lust for life and a disdain for convention and conservatism. Her opinion was that the quality of the life lived mattered more than the pace at which it accumulated goods or achieved milestones.
That next week, she made me a delicious dinner of steak and broccoli, rice and a grand salad. We ate a German Chocolate cake chock full of pecans. We enjoyed feeding a little puff of personality-laced fur teriyaki beef.
She came up with more gifts for me first birthday, but she had already given me the greatest one in that little bit of sage observation, annoyed as she was in delivering it. Of course, Seamus was a close second, but I digress.
She fit a lot into her life because she was never in a rush to do what everyone else wanted her to or decided was important. Doing it your own way was what made something special, not some arbitrary right way.
And if, as Marcie observed, people were impatient with you about how long you took, then make them wait a little longer and enjoy that, too.
Of course, she eventually taught me how to do that with bacon.
As was typical between us, an impasse meant that we both waited for an advantageous moment before we upset the apple cart. Marcie had one planned.
The week before my birthday saw her tip her hand. Not that she had a choice. Her gift to me arrived with a harried-looking Barbara in tow.
"Oh, honey!" she said. "I didn't know you were home. Well, happy birthday!"
And there he was, a little puff of fur, half asleep and clinging to her dress. Under the closest of observation I took him from her and he mewed in protest.
He was tiny and soft, and as I held him, cupped in my hands, he stood, arched his back and stretched, his little needlenails poking into my palm.
All that Marcie knew was that he fit in one of my hands. "Oh my god, he fits in one hand. How precious is that?" she asked her mother.
Barbara nodded and "mmhmm'd" a little neutrally. I would find out later that Seamus had been in her house for a week, terrorizing Samantha, their older cat, and driving her insane.
"Well, happy birthday ahead of time, Frank," she said, taking her keys and walking back to her little Sprint.
"Thanks, Barbara," I said, smiling at the yet-unnamed and deceptively calm furball in my hands.
"So what is your name?" I asked him.
He looked at me sedately and made a silent meow. His striped chunks of fur and white belly told me little about him, except some possible Maine Coon lineage. But his green eyes were a clue.
Marcie wanted to name her male cats Angus and Fergus, girls would be Talulah Belle and (as was one of her nicknames) Tink. I liked the idea of a good Irish name.
"He doesn't have a name," Marcie said. "You have to name him."
"I think he's a Seamus," I said.
"Seamus," she said. "Oh, honey. I like that name. Like Seamus Heaney, the writer?"
I nodded and Seamus decided to look to the ground. I caught him and we went inside.
We played to his exhaustion with him that afternoon, then Marcie cooked some dinner. She wandered out and smiled, pleased with herself, hands on her hips. Her gift had been a big success. Seamus slept on my shoulder.
"So I have to order you ice cream birthday cake tomorrow," she said. "I hope you like it, honey."
I looked up and smiled. "Well, it's like having cake and ice cream all at once, I guess. Do they have German Chocolate cake versions? That's what I really want."
Her eyes lit up and she shook her head. "Oh, no, honey. They have pretty basic, set recipes with ice cream. It's not really even cake, really."
I feigned thought and then some disappointment. "That's a bummer. I have a craving for some German Chocolate cake with pecans..."
"Oh, I can make you that!" she said, plopping down next to me. "Then we can just buy some ice cream and eat a normal birthday dessert. What do you think?"
She set her hand on my forearm and bit her lower lip. She was stoked.
"That sounds good," I said. "We'll do that instead. I wanted to try your baking, anyways. We can get an ice cream cake some other time."
She clapped her hands a few times and then slapped her thighs as she got up. "I am very excited to bake for you," she said. "I think you're going to love your cake."
She brought dinner, and Seamus woke to wander about begging by our feet. Pieces of chicken slipped off my plate to him "accidentally." It is a continued tradition, of course.
Marcie shook her head as a piece fell from my plate. "So, honey, I am glad you want to celebrate your birthday, and it was sweet of you to say I was the reason you had to celebrate, but why are you so anti-birthday?"
I shrugged and I let it all out. "I will be 24 and I am just finishing my first year of college," I said. "I will be six years behind most of my peers from high school."
She looked at me as if I were insane.
"I am barely on my feet and don't have a solid job, I have to scrape a lot to get by, and some of my friends are already in their careers," I continued. "I just don't feel like I have anything to celebrate, accomplishment-wise. I'm behind."
She looked at me with a look of near-disgust on her face and rolled her eyes. Her fork clattered on her plate.
"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," she started. "You're a straight-A student, you have two jobs at the college, you are respected, you are a member of student government and you work on the side, too."
She picked at her sun-dried tomatoes and bread, then looked over, shaking her head, "You saw a lot of the world and you have lived and struggled and overcome more crap than almost anyone who goes straight to college ever will."
"I don't care who graduates before me," she added. "Ive been to Europe twice, had a lot of fun and worked and paid my own way through. Nobody gets any credit but me. And when you finish, you'll be able to say the same thing."
I leaned over and I kissed her as she turned to continue after gnoshing a bit on her dinner. "Thank you," I said.
I had heard a lot of the ideas of my being behind from a generation of people who thought door closed at certain times. Some of those gems I remember still, like "No college degree by 22? It's too late to go back..." and "Still in school at 23? You must be a professional student..."
Luckily I was with a woman with a sense of adventure, a lust for life and a disdain for convention and conservatism. Her opinion was that the quality of the life lived mattered more than the pace at which it accumulated goods or achieved milestones.
That next week, she made me a delicious dinner of steak and broccoli, rice and a grand salad. We ate a German Chocolate cake chock full of pecans. We enjoyed feeding a little puff of personality-laced fur teriyaki beef.
She came up with more gifts for me first birthday, but she had already given me the greatest one in that little bit of sage observation, annoyed as she was in delivering it. Of course, Seamus was a close second, but I digress.
She fit a lot into her life because she was never in a rush to do what everyone else wanted her to or decided was important. Doing it your own way was what made something special, not some arbitrary right way.
And if, as Marcie observed, people were impatient with you about how long you took, then make them wait a little longer and enjoy that, too.
Of course, she eventually taught me how to do that with bacon.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Marcie On Our Other Birthdays
I will finish my story about Marcie and birthdays and growing up and getting over blah blah. But I wanted to mention one little thing Marcie did for someone in the family.
My grandmother, as I have said, was like Marcie when it came to cooking. Unlike me, however, grandma was also a baker. Yes, I know I have mentioned her making me cakes for my birthday. She also made delicious cobblers, pies and a variety of items.
As she got on in years, grandma Pruett slowed down on the baking. This impacted a lot of people, but one in particular. My father had a special cake he liked.
Grandma Pruett made my father his pineapple upside down cake for his birthday. I don't know when she started doing this, but it was likely his choice for cake in his formative years, in Hawaii.
I will ask him later today over dinner at Pampas Argentine Grill.
My mother had made my father pineapple upside-down cake as well, from scratch with a yellow cake mix and pineapple juice in places where water was called for, and lots of brown sugar topping.
Of course, her departure meant my grandmother resumed preparign the treat for him. At any rate, as Grandma got on in years she did not continue with the cake-baking. It was just too much.
Marcie, luckily, having a father also raised in Hawaii, knew just what to do. She made my father his pineapple upside-down cakes for years on and off, delivering one at his birthday faithfully. She took great joy in it.
It's just another thing her departure leaves missing in our lives now. But I try to note all of them, because the big things are just part of the good she brought into the world. All the little things count, too, and bring pain in their absence.
My grandmother, as I have said, was like Marcie when it came to cooking. Unlike me, however, grandma was also a baker. Yes, I know I have mentioned her making me cakes for my birthday. She also made delicious cobblers, pies and a variety of items.
As she got on in years, grandma Pruett slowed down on the baking. This impacted a lot of people, but one in particular. My father had a special cake he liked.
Grandma Pruett made my father his pineapple upside down cake for his birthday. I don't know when she started doing this, but it was likely his choice for cake in his formative years, in Hawaii.
I will ask him later today over dinner at Pampas Argentine Grill.
My mother had made my father pineapple upside-down cake as well, from scratch with a yellow cake mix and pineapple juice in places where water was called for, and lots of brown sugar topping.
Of course, her departure meant my grandmother resumed preparign the treat for him. At any rate, as Grandma got on in years she did not continue with the cake-baking. It was just too much.
Marcie, luckily, having a father also raised in Hawaii, knew just what to do. She made my father his pineapple upside-down cakes for years on and off, delivering one at his birthday faithfully. She took great joy in it.
It's just another thing her departure leaves missing in our lives now. But I try to note all of them, because the big things are just part of the good she brought into the world. All the little things count, too, and bring pain in their absence.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tough to watch
The most innocuous things can knock me down and send me back into grief. Television shows do that instantly.
I rid myself of television a few months ago. The only viewing I can do is through the web, and I avoid it. Most shows I watched before Marcie died were because of her and wanting to spend time with her.
Some I simply did not like except to see her enthusiasm for them, such as the Amazing Race, Survivor, and other reality shows. These appealed to Marcie's voyeuristic side.
"I know it is like, total trash, but I love seeing these people just make fools out of themselves," she said.
Some others were not so bad. We watched Weeds on Showtime at the suggestion of Tanya, caught Lost together once in a while, and watched Animal Planet. I refrained from her Desperate Housewives, Dancing with the Stars and American Idol. Ugh.
But I did enjoy watching The Office with her. She filled me in on the little details, kept me informed when reporting took away from my viewing time, and laughed constantly while she watched it.
Last night, because I remember how much she loved it, I tried watching a few episodes on the web. While the laughs were still there, I found myself in tears afterward.
I needed the Marcie touch, the little guffaws, the happy banter, the commercial runs to the bathroom or kitchen and her joy at watching.
All I could think was how much she would have loved each scene with her favorite characters. But who would have thought a television show would carry such emotional weight?
Maybe I'll watch Lost, too. Ugh.
I rid myself of television a few months ago. The only viewing I can do is through the web, and I avoid it. Most shows I watched before Marcie died were because of her and wanting to spend time with her.
Some I simply did not like except to see her enthusiasm for them, such as the Amazing Race, Survivor, and other reality shows. These appealed to Marcie's voyeuristic side.
"I know it is like, total trash, but I love seeing these people just make fools out of themselves," she said.
Some others were not so bad. We watched Weeds on Showtime at the suggestion of Tanya, caught Lost together once in a while, and watched Animal Planet. I refrained from her Desperate Housewives, Dancing with the Stars and American Idol. Ugh.
But I did enjoy watching The Office with her. She filled me in on the little details, kept me informed when reporting took away from my viewing time, and laughed constantly while she watched it.
Last night, because I remember how much she loved it, I tried watching a few episodes on the web. While the laughs were still there, I found myself in tears afterward.
I needed the Marcie touch, the little guffaws, the happy banter, the commercial runs to the bathroom or kitchen and her joy at watching.
All I could think was how much she would have loved each scene with her favorite characters. But who would have thought a television show would carry such emotional weight?
Maybe I'll watch Lost, too. Ugh.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
A Mistrust of Praise (Conclusion)
"You are so beautiful," I said, holding her hand and kissing her forehead.
She looked at me dubiously and croaked, "You don't have to say that."
Her voice was a hoarse, breathless whisper. I heard it as much with my heart as with my ears. I had waited two days to hear it again, and I was in tears that I had my chance.
"You are so beautiful," I said. "You inspire me, you make me a better man and a better person. I am in love and have been for 14 years. You teach me, you love me, you take care of me and you have grown up with me."
She looked, her eyes uneven, one pupil larger than the other. She could not see me well, I knew. But her hearing would be the last thing, and she needed to hear it all. Spasm or not, she squeezed my hand. Her eyes closed. I squeezed back.
"You are and have always been the most loyal, sweet, smart, kind, thoughtful, generous, adventurous, glamorous, sexy and loving woman I have ever met," I said.
She gulped and I kissed her cheek.
"You are the greatest honor I have ever been given, and I say given because do not know that I have ever earned or deserved you or even had a hope of really being worthy," I said.
Tears slid out of her eyes and she mouthed "You have," then eked out, "You are, honey."
I felt the hot trail of my tears burn down my cheeks as I continued to recall my list of things to say. "I didn't always praise you at the beginning. I was afraid that you would take me for granted or maybe you would take advantage, I was insecure," I said "I'm sorry."
She nodded at it all and I kissed her nose, letting a tear mix with hers before I gently wiped her cheeks and rasped "I am glad I got over it, and I always meant what I told you about how good you are."
She opened her eyes and the strength of her voice startled me. "I am glad too, honey," she said, then, her voice fading again, she added "You always said what you felt."
I knew she was tired and I leaned down. "I love you, beautiful," I said.
She looked up at me with her eyes slit and mouthed, "I know." A rueful half-smile almost formed and she was out again. It was a gentle joke to lighten the moment. I kissed her again and her breathing was the slow, familiar rhythm it had become.
I knew she accepted at least my own praise, and that I had offered her as much as she could handle in a moment of wakefulness. She accepted not my praise of her baking or cooking, which she could dismiss as a recipe and secretly enjoy, but of her.
To get that acceptance and see her lightly revel in my attention was an honor in its own right.
She looked at me dubiously and croaked, "You don't have to say that."
Her voice was a hoarse, breathless whisper. I heard it as much with my heart as with my ears. I had waited two days to hear it again, and I was in tears that I had my chance.
"You are so beautiful," I said. "You inspire me, you make me a better man and a better person. I am in love and have been for 14 years. You teach me, you love me, you take care of me and you have grown up with me."
She looked, her eyes uneven, one pupil larger than the other. She could not see me well, I knew. But her hearing would be the last thing, and she needed to hear it all. Spasm or not, she squeezed my hand. Her eyes closed. I squeezed back.
"You are and have always been the most loyal, sweet, smart, kind, thoughtful, generous, adventurous, glamorous, sexy and loving woman I have ever met," I said.
She gulped and I kissed her cheek.
"You are the greatest honor I have ever been given, and I say given because do not know that I have ever earned or deserved you or even had a hope of really being worthy," I said.
Tears slid out of her eyes and she mouthed "You have," then eked out, "You are, honey."
I felt the hot trail of my tears burn down my cheeks as I continued to recall my list of things to say. "I didn't always praise you at the beginning. I was afraid that you would take me for granted or maybe you would take advantage, I was insecure," I said "I'm sorry."
She nodded at it all and I kissed her nose, letting a tear mix with hers before I gently wiped her cheeks and rasped "I am glad I got over it, and I always meant what I told you about how good you are."
She opened her eyes and the strength of her voice startled me. "I am glad too, honey," she said, then, her voice fading again, she added "You always said what you felt."
I knew she was tired and I leaned down. "I love you, beautiful," I said.
She looked up at me with her eyes slit and mouthed, "I know." A rueful half-smile almost formed and she was out again. It was a gentle joke to lighten the moment. I kissed her again and her breathing was the slow, familiar rhythm it had become.
I knew she accepted at least my own praise, and that I had offered her as much as she could handle in a moment of wakefulness. She accepted not my praise of her baking or cooking, which she could dismiss as a recipe and secretly enjoy, but of her.
To get that acceptance and see her lightly revel in my attention was an honor in its own right.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Weight of Years
It is difficult to live here,
In this house on this street.
Where every little thing is a reminder,
and every little reminder is so precious,
but heavy on my heart.
I want to flee from this,
so I cling to it all.
In this house on this street.
Where every little thing is a reminder,
and every little reminder is so precious,
but heavy on my heart.
I want to flee from this,
so I cling to it all.
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Down Side to Nostalgia
As much as I love the music I have collected, much of it carries the memory of Marcie and events in my life with her so strongly that I cannot bear to listen to it at times. In other moments, I am simply comforted. I am currently on a ten-minute break from work, wondering if there is "More Than This" than to be "Back on the Chain Gang" and remembering Marcie as one "Few and Far Between."
I miss our "Glory Days."
I miss our "Glory Days."
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Finally back at the Beach
So today it was hot, and I decided to try going back to the beach. I made a review of mission Beach for Yelp... I thought I would share it here, too.
I almost had to leave you forever, Mission Beach. Your funk, your wide swath of the social fabric, none of it could obliterate the pain. But I went back and we were back, buddied up for madness and fun.
Yeah, bra. You know me. I used to pop in for breakfast. I sometimes had a beer. But me, I come see you to be on your sand and in your water. Back on my hardboard days, by the jetty. Body boarding days? That sweet break in the summer swim zone, in front of Canes.
Now you remember me. Hey, remember when mom took off and lived down by the volleyball nets in that cool little beach house with that new dude? She visited that day with us and I learned to surf? I sure do. I was nine, man. Wow, that was a great day, seeing mom after three months. Thanks, you were a great host.
Remember all the trips to see you with my aunts and uncles and dozens of cousins, sneaking away from Mission Bay Park where they made us stay to come see you so I could play in the waves. Awesome, man. It was worth the spanking, totally!
Remember the girlfriends I took there, all of them needing to have that special "you get to know this place through me" quality. Yeah, of course you do. Even the one who didn't much like you.
In 14 years she only came with me five times. Each time, I made it a point to be in tune, riding and carving to impress her under her skin-shielding encampment, my little pallid Sultana. She liked it, but the beach was just not her thing. You played a good host, though.
I remember she urged me to be in the water whenever possible. I was. She was your biggest cheerleader. Then she was gone. I forgot she urged me to be in your water. I just remembered she didn't like to go with me to see you. I was afraid her spirit would not be with me.
I was wrong, and I finally went to see you today again, ready to ride the waves for the first time since she left me here. The first song on the radio was the one that reminds me of her. "Big Hard Sun." She wanted to let me know she was coming with me.
We've been buds for a long time, bra. You're my homie from the home break. Hell, you are the home break.
You might not be the best surf spot ever, but you have the goods to get me in the water, and there's a boardwalk for me if I want some non-natural beach fun. Not bad, not bad, but a little gawdy. I prefer the sand and waves.
Hey, bud. If I bring a new girl or a pack of friends around, try to do something to score me a fire ring. It gets busy and I can't camp out all day. You understand, man.
And do you think you can bring the broom painter back, the guy who does the sand sweeping designs on the lot surface? That would be keen, even if he sells more Jesus than an immigrant smuggler with a labor service on the side.
I almost had to leave you forever, Mission Beach. Your funk, your wide swath of the social fabric, none of it could obliterate the pain. But I went back and we were back, buddied up for madness and fun.
Yeah, bra. You know me. I used to pop in for breakfast. I sometimes had a beer. But me, I come see you to be on your sand and in your water. Back on my hardboard days, by the jetty. Body boarding days? That sweet break in the summer swim zone, in front of Canes.
Now you remember me. Hey, remember when mom took off and lived down by the volleyball nets in that cool little beach house with that new dude? She visited that day with us and I learned to surf? I sure do. I was nine, man. Wow, that was a great day, seeing mom after three months. Thanks, you were a great host.
Remember all the trips to see you with my aunts and uncles and dozens of cousins, sneaking away from Mission Bay Park where they made us stay to come see you so I could play in the waves. Awesome, man. It was worth the spanking, totally!
Remember the girlfriends I took there, all of them needing to have that special "you get to know this place through me" quality. Yeah, of course you do. Even the one who didn't much like you.
In 14 years she only came with me five times. Each time, I made it a point to be in tune, riding and carving to impress her under her skin-shielding encampment, my little pallid Sultana. She liked it, but the beach was just not her thing. You played a good host, though.
I remember she urged me to be in the water whenever possible. I was. She was your biggest cheerleader. Then she was gone. I forgot she urged me to be in your water. I just remembered she didn't like to go with me to see you. I was afraid her spirit would not be with me.
I was wrong, and I finally went to see you today again, ready to ride the waves for the first time since she left me here. The first song on the radio was the one that reminds me of her. "Big Hard Sun." She wanted to let me know she was coming with me.
We've been buds for a long time, bra. You're my homie from the home break. Hell, you are the home break.
You might not be the best surf spot ever, but you have the goods to get me in the water, and there's a boardwalk for me if I want some non-natural beach fun. Not bad, not bad, but a little gawdy. I prefer the sand and waves.
Hey, bud. If I bring a new girl or a pack of friends around, try to do something to score me a fire ring. It gets busy and I can't camp out all day. You understand, man.
And do you think you can bring the broom painter back, the guy who does the sand sweeping designs on the lot surface? That would be keen, even if he sells more Jesus than an immigrant smuggler with a labor service on the side.
Friday, May 2, 2008
The biggest kitty heartache ever (pt 2)
We were tense for weeks. We did everything to try and keep Seamus' coughing to a minimum. But as we tried to save up the $600, Marcie became more and more distraught, and I became less convinced that it would all work out.
"He's getting worse," she said. "Honey, he's punky all day now, and he even coughs when he's try to eat."
I nodded and stroked him as his wheezes cycled in again and his limp, ever thinner body shook with each breath. He was down a lot of weight. But there was life and love in his eyes, and he could manage a purr until the built-up liquid went down the wrong tube.
"I know, honey," I said. "He's fighting, though."
She slid onto the couch next to me and cupped and rubbed my hands on him. A talk was coming. Marcie knew that, whenever she told me anything, she needed only rub and hold my hands to express how hard it was to say. She was rubbing very hard.
It meant she was going to upset me. It also meant she needed me to console her when the shock had passed.
"We can't give him chemo if it's cancer, honey," she said, her voice trembling. She squeezed my hand earnestly. "He hates the doctor, and his poor little body just won't take it. I don't want him to be miserable."
I looked up and felt hot tears as I nodded. She needed to know I was with her, but I couldn't say it. I could express only my pain and grief, so I did.
"He is my little gift from you," I said. "He used to sleep in the palm of one of my hands, or in my shoes when I went to school."
I had more to say, but my voice cracked and I couldn't. Seamus stirred. I pulled him in close to me and began to rock him, and Marcie stroked my back as I bit my lip and gulped. I turned away.
Marcie stroked my arms and back as she slid close. "You have to promise that if it's cancer, we'll take him and put him to sleep, no arguments."
I considered my little buddy's state as he coughed into my chest and mewed pathetically at me, his eyes a little dull at the moment. I could in no way let him suffer even worse, on one lung, just to prolong his time with me.
"Of course we will," I whispered, kissing his head as he complained at the sudden hugging. "The last thing he'll hear will be us, and the last thing he'll feel will be us holding him in his blanket, okay?"
She couldn't handle it and broke down completely, her forehead in one hand, her other hand squeezing mine tightly as she sobbed. "He never did anything wrong," she wailed. "This is so horrible."
I consoled her as best I could as Seamus squirmed free and tried to lead us into the kitchen for food, stopping to wheeze as he did. We went for a long walk at Cabrillo National Monument that evening and just held hands.
As the weeks passed, we endeavored to make him more comfortable and to bring him things to enjoy. He had jerky, catnip of all kinds, his own patch of wheat grass in every room and ate whenever he wanted. He sill lost weight.
I had stopped smoking the year prior. Marcie finally joined me, saying, "If we gave it to him with our cigarettes, I'll just fucking kill myself, I swear to God."
Her light habit and the sad circumstances made the quitting easier for her. She walked more often and I went with her. We became closer still.
Every day, I would get home and see him outside onto the patio, where he would loll and roll between hacking fits. When Marcie was not home, I took him downstairs to walk around in the complex.
When the week came in which we would have enough to get his ultrasound done, I quietly searched and found an in-home euthanasia service. I printed the page, with its comforting but solemn graphic of a sun-drenched room and an empty cat bed.
Marcie hugged me and shook. I stroked her back, something my hands remember doing so often, and massaged her gently as I kissed her neck and tucked her into my chest.
The morning arrived. Seamus had coughed all night the night before. When he quietly walked into and he plopped his body heavily into his cage and on the blanket inside, we looked at each other.
He never wanted to see the doctor. But he was so scared he wanted to, or he wanted to hide.
"I'm ready," she said. "Let's go."
We kissed first and our solemn parade took a long walk to either certainty or relief. We did not expect the latter.
"He's getting worse," she said. "Honey, he's punky all day now, and he even coughs when he's try to eat."
I nodded and stroked him as his wheezes cycled in again and his limp, ever thinner body shook with each breath. He was down a lot of weight. But there was life and love in his eyes, and he could manage a purr until the built-up liquid went down the wrong tube.
"I know, honey," I said. "He's fighting, though."
She slid onto the couch next to me and cupped and rubbed my hands on him. A talk was coming. Marcie knew that, whenever she told me anything, she needed only rub and hold my hands to express how hard it was to say. She was rubbing very hard.
It meant she was going to upset me. It also meant she needed me to console her when the shock had passed.
"We can't give him chemo if it's cancer, honey," she said, her voice trembling. She squeezed my hand earnestly. "He hates the doctor, and his poor little body just won't take it. I don't want him to be miserable."
I looked up and felt hot tears as I nodded. She needed to know I was with her, but I couldn't say it. I could express only my pain and grief, so I did.
"He is my little gift from you," I said. "He used to sleep in the palm of one of my hands, or in my shoes when I went to school."
I had more to say, but my voice cracked and I couldn't. Seamus stirred. I pulled him in close to me and began to rock him, and Marcie stroked my back as I bit my lip and gulped. I turned away.
Marcie stroked my arms and back as she slid close. "You have to promise that if it's cancer, we'll take him and put him to sleep, no arguments."
I considered my little buddy's state as he coughed into my chest and mewed pathetically at me, his eyes a little dull at the moment. I could in no way let him suffer even worse, on one lung, just to prolong his time with me.
"Of course we will," I whispered, kissing his head as he complained at the sudden hugging. "The last thing he'll hear will be us, and the last thing he'll feel will be us holding him in his blanket, okay?"
She couldn't handle it and broke down completely, her forehead in one hand, her other hand squeezing mine tightly as she sobbed. "He never did anything wrong," she wailed. "This is so horrible."
I consoled her as best I could as Seamus squirmed free and tried to lead us into the kitchen for food, stopping to wheeze as he did. We went for a long walk at Cabrillo National Monument that evening and just held hands.
As the weeks passed, we endeavored to make him more comfortable and to bring him things to enjoy. He had jerky, catnip of all kinds, his own patch of wheat grass in every room and ate whenever he wanted. He sill lost weight.
I had stopped smoking the year prior. Marcie finally joined me, saying, "If we gave it to him with our cigarettes, I'll just fucking kill myself, I swear to God."
Her light habit and the sad circumstances made the quitting easier for her. She walked more often and I went with her. We became closer still.
Every day, I would get home and see him outside onto the patio, where he would loll and roll between hacking fits. When Marcie was not home, I took him downstairs to walk around in the complex.
When the week came in which we would have enough to get his ultrasound done, I quietly searched and found an in-home euthanasia service. I printed the page, with its comforting but solemn graphic of a sun-drenched room and an empty cat bed.
Marcie hugged me and shook. I stroked her back, something my hands remember doing so often, and massaged her gently as I kissed her neck and tucked her into my chest.
The morning arrived. Seamus had coughed all night the night before. When he quietly walked into and he plopped his body heavily into his cage and on the blanket inside, we looked at each other.
He never wanted to see the doctor. But he was so scared he wanted to, or he wanted to hide.
"I'm ready," she said. "Let's go."
We kissed first and our solemn parade took a long walk to either certainty or relief. We did not expect the latter.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Looking for you
Looking For You
Just half a year ago today,
You broke your bonds and slipped away.
I nearly went with you that night,
Sometimes I hope that I still might.
Five months ago I was alone,
Left here without you, on my own.
You'd come to see when I'd dream,
To comfort me, or so it'd seem.
Four months ago I traveled North
to see two friends your life brought forth.
Among your angels, I did start
to see a future for my heart.
Three months ago I knew despair.
I dreamed but did not feel you there.
Then back you came to see me through,
and give my soul a taste of you.
Two months ago I looked for light,
But you had gone beyond my sight.
And so, with heart and dreams bereft,
I wondered if your spirit left.
One month ago you came to me.
You said you were not sad, but free.
Insisting that you felt my love,
but soon would be too far above.
This month I waited for your voice,
your touch, your taste, your scent so choice.
I caught them in the morning's mist
A fog around me, coolness kissed.
Today I look around and live,
and try to share what I can give.
Sometimes I do and feel your soul,
and for a moment, I am whole.
But half a year ago today,
You broke your bonds and slipped away.
And one of those was in my heart,
It's simply called "the missing part."
Just half a year ago today,
You broke your bonds and slipped away.
I nearly went with you that night,
Sometimes I hope that I still might.
Five months ago I was alone,
Left here without you, on my own.
You'd come to see when I'd dream,
To comfort me, or so it'd seem.
Four months ago I traveled North
to see two friends your life brought forth.
Among your angels, I did start
to see a future for my heart.
Three months ago I knew despair.
I dreamed but did not feel you there.
Then back you came to see me through,
and give my soul a taste of you.
Two months ago I looked for light,
But you had gone beyond my sight.
And so, with heart and dreams bereft,
I wondered if your spirit left.
One month ago you came to me.
You said you were not sad, but free.
Insisting that you felt my love,
but soon would be too far above.
This month I waited for your voice,
your touch, your taste, your scent so choice.
I caught them in the morning's mist
A fog around me, coolness kissed.
Today I look around and live,
and try to share what I can give.
Sometimes I do and feel your soul,
and for a moment, I am whole.
But half a year ago today,
You broke your bonds and slipped away.
And one of those was in my heart,
It's simply called "the missing part."
The biggest kitty heartache ever
Seamus's ailments and mishaps continued over the years. There was, of course, his vacation/anniversary-ending urinary tract infection. There was also a problem with his weight, which was solved with a change to soft food.
There was the development of his magic ear (his left ear in the pictures below), which was the result of a hematoma from scratching himself. Marcie was convinced that it was cancer, but it turned out to be a flood of blood into his ear that "cauliflowered" it afterward.
But the worst of all was the series of dark weeks in which we believed him to be a doomed kitty. I have never seen Marcie cry so much and so often.
I'll post the whole of the story later. For now, enjoy these pictures of Seamus illicitly enjoying a pot of pasta, and showing off his magic ear for me from last night... As usual, click to enlarge them if you want to see them in detail.
There was the development of his magic ear (his left ear in the pictures below), which was the result of a hematoma from scratching himself. Marcie was convinced that it was cancer, but it turned out to be a flood of blood into his ear that "cauliflowered" it afterward.
But the worst of all was the series of dark weeks in which we believed him to be a doomed kitty. I have never seen Marcie cry so much and so often.
I'll post the whole of the story later. For now, enjoy these pictures of Seamus illicitly enjoying a pot of pasta, and showing off his magic ear for me from last night... As usual, click to enlarge them if you want to see them in detail.
The Feasting Cat of The Magic Ear
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Five days
Five days from now will mean one half year from losing her. My weight is down over 50 pounds, but I feel the heaviness of my heart increasing.
I feel it as I run into the night, hoping to outpace my sorrows with steps and heartbeats.
I feel it as I ponder my work and the meaningless struggle to procure money for children who are sneered at by selfish gray people who would see them imprisoned before they were educated.
I feel it as I consider the future with women ahead of me, in all their sadness or greed or heartless demand for comforting falsity.
I feel it as I gaze into a picture of beautiful blue eyes and know that a great and perfect love is gone from me, perhaps forever.
I feel it as I try to gather the courage and the motivation to pour out her life in verse and chapter as I know it, and her memorial as I realize it.
I feel it as I listen to my body for the little signs that say I will not live to honor her, to immortalize her, and to be known to have been hers at all, except as a rumor that dies with the last that have heard it from some reverent voice.
And I cannot feel so much so often and so deeply anymore without someone, and I feel my greatest grief when I admit I know she was right, and I must love to live, and I must live to love again.
And I wish she could live, so all of that, all of these weights, could feel so much less of a burden and a stone in me, and so much more a matter of my grateful love for her, as it always had been.
But at least my shoulders are broad and my back is unbowed, and much of that is her, alive in me and insistent that I carry her, and it, on.
F.
I feel it as I run into the night, hoping to outpace my sorrows with steps and heartbeats.
I feel it as I ponder my work and the meaningless struggle to procure money for children who are sneered at by selfish gray people who would see them imprisoned before they were educated.
I feel it as I consider the future with women ahead of me, in all their sadness or greed or heartless demand for comforting falsity.
I feel it as I gaze into a picture of beautiful blue eyes and know that a great and perfect love is gone from me, perhaps forever.
I feel it as I try to gather the courage and the motivation to pour out her life in verse and chapter as I know it, and her memorial as I realize it.
I feel it as I listen to my body for the little signs that say I will not live to honor her, to immortalize her, and to be known to have been hers at all, except as a rumor that dies with the last that have heard it from some reverent voice.
And I cannot feel so much so often and so deeply anymore without someone, and I feel my greatest grief when I admit I know she was right, and I must love to live, and I must live to love again.
And I wish she could live, so all of that, all of these weights, could feel so much less of a burden and a stone in me, and so much more a matter of my grateful love for her, as it always had been.
But at least my shoulders are broad and my back is unbowed, and much of that is her, alive in me and insistent that I carry her, and it, on.
F.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
That last week comes back
Every once in a while, sitting here so close to where she left us and the great pain of those last hours behind, I am overwhelmed in my memories by her prsence. This is one of those overwhelming nights.
We are in the half-year anniversary of the last week I had with Marcie, and though i have had some joy in my life and made plans to honor her, I have been stricken this evening and am having a hard time with it all. No posts about cats and arguments tonight, folks.
Though I see that there is a possibility of happiness without her alive and near me, it is at times like these that the loss of her feels like a gaping wound that will never quite heal, but simply close up and open once in a while. I'll be back when it closes again.
F.
We are in the half-year anniversary of the last week I had with Marcie, and though i have had some joy in my life and made plans to honor her, I have been stricken this evening and am having a hard time with it all. No posts about cats and arguments tonight, folks.
Though I see that there is a possibility of happiness without her alive and near me, it is at times like these that the loss of her feels like a gaping wound that will never quite heal, but simply close up and open once in a while. I'll be back when it closes again.
F.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Five months today - A letter to Marcie
So, today marks five black months since I lost the one person in my life whose true-heartedness, beauty, intelligence, independence, sweetness and depth could completely enthrall me, and did.
To my beloved wife,
I have been trying to open my eyes and wake from this nightmare, now in its sixth month. Perhaps that word seems strong, but after 14 years of you, such a sweet, long dream, the profound absence of you is so very stark.
I hope to share, again, what you gave me. I do not know if you got all of this before you passed, and I now am so grief-wracked that I cannot remember clearly what I shared. All the more reason to do so again, freshly, I guess.
You defined so much about me. You encouraged me to continue in what I did that you loved, and you brought me around on anything you didn't. I could not refuse you, though it was never easy to lead me to change, I know.
Your gentle admonitions, calling me to reflect on my gentler ways, softened and warmed my warrior heart. Your drive to seek goodness before riches, and to appreciate what is free (and to free oneself), directed my work to higher purposes. You inspire me to be a force for good.
Your loving and attentive touch healed so many wounds in me that I cannot begin to list them. You taught me that some of those wounds, once closed, should never be reopened. I will try to uphold that outlook without your constant and sweet reminders. You teach me to forgive, a lesson I will try to not forget.
"Honey, don't cast pearls before swine," you said.
I don't know how many times and in how many situations you used that line to remind me that I should not pour myself into fruitless or unappreciated efforts. I still struggle with that. But even when I do toss them, your voice echoes the maxim.
You used to draw my attention to the simple beauties around me, the leisure and the ease of our life together, no matter how I wanted to build it up more. You teach me that simple pleasures are more lasting and dear in their absence than wealthy indulgences.
Your life affirmed to me how family, though precious, is almost always the source of the worst pain we can experience. The things you put up, and the dignity you showed while doing so, amazed me. You were a noble and strong example I will try to emulate.
I know you said you want me to get out and find my way in a world without you. I don't know if I can.
I do promise to draw on all the strength you have given me, all the lessons we learned together, and all the memories I cherish of you to get through just one more day, or hour, or minute, or second. Maybe something will turn, maybe it will not.
Either way, whether for a happier tomorrow or the last of them, I carry on, still thoroughly in love and absolutely crushed.
Right now? Marcie, I wish I could touch something more of you than a box of your ashes and a picture, because what I need now most is your soothing caress.
Your Husband
To my beloved wife,
I have been trying to open my eyes and wake from this nightmare, now in its sixth month. Perhaps that word seems strong, but after 14 years of you, such a sweet, long dream, the profound absence of you is so very stark.
I hope to share, again, what you gave me. I do not know if you got all of this before you passed, and I now am so grief-wracked that I cannot remember clearly what I shared. All the more reason to do so again, freshly, I guess.
You defined so much about me. You encouraged me to continue in what I did that you loved, and you brought me around on anything you didn't. I could not refuse you, though it was never easy to lead me to change, I know.
Your gentle admonitions, calling me to reflect on my gentler ways, softened and warmed my warrior heart. Your drive to seek goodness before riches, and to appreciate what is free (and to free oneself), directed my work to higher purposes. You inspire me to be a force for good.
Your loving and attentive touch healed so many wounds in me that I cannot begin to list them. You taught me that some of those wounds, once closed, should never be reopened. I will try to uphold that outlook without your constant and sweet reminders. You teach me to forgive, a lesson I will try to not forget.
"Honey, don't cast pearls before swine," you said.
I don't know how many times and in how many situations you used that line to remind me that I should not pour myself into fruitless or unappreciated efforts. I still struggle with that. But even when I do toss them, your voice echoes the maxim.
You used to draw my attention to the simple beauties around me, the leisure and the ease of our life together, no matter how I wanted to build it up more. You teach me that simple pleasures are more lasting and dear in their absence than wealthy indulgences.
Your life affirmed to me how family, though precious, is almost always the source of the worst pain we can experience. The things you put up, and the dignity you showed while doing so, amazed me. You were a noble and strong example I will try to emulate.
I know you said you want me to get out and find my way in a world without you. I don't know if I can.
I do promise to draw on all the strength you have given me, all the lessons we learned together, and all the memories I cherish of you to get through just one more day, or hour, or minute, or second. Maybe something will turn, maybe it will not.
Either way, whether for a happier tomorrow or the last of them, I carry on, still thoroughly in love and absolutely crushed.
Right now? Marcie, I wish I could touch something more of you than a box of your ashes and a picture, because what I need now most is your soothing caress.
Your Husband