Marcie was strong. She cried, and then she sometimes held it all in, too. But she always broke down when she talked about the people she would leave behind.
"Oh, my mom," she said. "My mom is going to be devastated. I don't know what she's going to do."
I held her hand and she squeezed it as the tears oozed from her eyes and she gulped. I ached to my core.
I hated to see her cry. In all my time with Marcie, I had never gotten used to the idea of seeing her unhappy or in pain, or sad in any way. I always thought that she should feel nothing but happiness, unrealistic as that was.
Of course, if she cried in any case because of me, and that was not unheard of, it usually ended in immediate efforts to reconcile and a sense of great guilt. It didn't matter if I was right.
It was never right for me to see her upset.
But when Marcie cried the most with me was when she reviewed her life, very discreetly, in the form of her friends and family, and her thoughts of how her departure would impact them.
When her thoughts turned to all of those lives her own was entangled with, she spoke clearly and thoughtfully, viewing each person through their own unique lens, colored and shaped by the moments they shared together.
She would call me and sit with me on the couch, or lay in the bed with me, and nearer the end, call me to her side.
I was left in these beautiful and heartrending moments in a state most who know me would say was unfathomable. Speechless and overwhelmed is not my native mien.
She feared for everyone she knew. She hoped for them, too. She lamented the loss of their future experiences together and her support of them. She smiled and then cried at the goals people had set, which she was sure she would not see achieved.
She would often think of people before they visited her, and talk to me about them. She practiced her strolls down memory lane to help her organize her thoughts before she met them.
"I want to make sure that she... I hope he doesn't midn if I bring up... I wonder if she would mind if..." she was always planning and listing and preparing.
I am always grateful that we were so enmeshed in each other that we could finish each others' thoughts and read each others' minds. Marcie was not as at ease with it, even if it was second nature.
Though I might annoy Marcie when I finished hers in better times, she let that go in her last few months and would smile and grip my hand. It was not me wearing her down, she just needed the help.
Her thoughts started out where she wanted to be, but the disease would take them afar or stall her. She would look at me and ask without words. It was relief when i got it right.
"Yes, exactly," she said. "ExACTly. Thank you, sweetie."
"No, thank you," I would say.
She usually smiled at that. I did not tell her that every thought I helped her finish was another precious thing to know her by and another taste of her to savor for me as she drifted away.
She did this for weeks at a time, and I was devastated. I did not know what to say to all of her touching memories and thoughts on our friends. I felt the loss all of her friends would experience as she relayed it in her wise and sweet way.
She was getting depressed one day when speaking of a friend who was distant, one we had not been able to contact. I was at a loss, feeling despair as she wondered what had happened in her life.
I looked down and she said, "I promised to get in touch, I should have a long time ago," she said.
I sighed and finally something worthwhile came out of me. But to say them to her, to give her an inkling that I knew the road was to end for her, after resisting the thought for so long, broke me completely.
"I think that she, like everyone else you are thinking about, will miss you very badly, baby," I said. "But I think that they are all going to be very grateful to have someone like you to make their lives as rich as you do, just like I do."
She started crying but my thought was not complete, and I was falling apart, too.
"I think," I said, squeezing my eyes shut against the flood, "That you have done more for all the people in your life in the time they have had with you than anyone else ever will, and with such joy and spirit and fire..."
She covered her mouth wand closed her eyes as I rubbed her other hand in mine. I kissed her on the cheek.
"I just think you don't have to worry about people, because even if you aren't here to do things for them, they will be here to do things for other people like you have," I said. "It's something you do by just being yourself, you inspire people."
I gulped and smiled at her and I said, "I am sure you'll find a way to keep doing what you do best."
I hugged her and she wept with me. There were more conversations like this. Her loved ones came and went. Her memories and worries of them were and are are theirs to share, not mine and not here.
But for me, I am hoping that one little legacy, Marcie's inspiring ways, her cheerleading and wisdom-sharing and life well-lived, will remain as strong their lives as it is in mine, and in these pages.
Showing posts with label Thanks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thanks. Show all posts
Friday, January 2, 2009
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Marcie's Mourning
I have tried stepping away for a while, but my need to post and reflect and speak of and to and about Marcie has not faded. Some of the things I have not spoken of before include our conversations as the last few months slowly crawled by.
They were painful at times, but I can now recall them and understand how they made her so beautiful.
Marcie mourned her own life very briefly. But what she mourned the longest was her impact in her leaving us behind. That conversation came into play during her more somber times, when life was not much to be celebrated and all my efforts could not cheer her up.
But they always seemed to take great weight from her.
They were painful at times, but I can now recall them and understand how they made her so beautiful.
Marcie mourned her own life very briefly. But what she mourned the longest was her impact in her leaving us behind. That conversation came into play during her more somber times, when life was not much to be celebrated and all my efforts could not cheer her up.
But they always seemed to take great weight from her.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Letter to Marcie - Wisdom in Forgiveness
Dear Beloved,
I have been rummaging through gifts, reflecting on all of those you gave me. Some of them are more abstract, and this one no less so, perhaps moreso, than any other. You taught me to forgive again.
I do not know where I had learned to never trust anyone, or to take every offense as some permanent black stain that could never be removed, but when we met, it was how I was. With your example, and your encouragement, I can honestly say this is no more
Perhaps it was the vast echo chamber of my sprawling family, where first mention of a given offense by someone may not be heard in all corners for years. Even then, notoriety was easily created as exaggeration replaced information. But some in my family were more forgiving than begrudging.
Perhaps it was in my upbringing at Catholic school, where a permanent record meant yearly carryover of every demerit. Or perhaps in foster care, where every element of behavior, once written down, became a guide for every person who touched your life, or passed you along to the next.
Perhaps it was in receiving too many wounds too quickly to heal them all. A backlog of bitterness, a pattern of pain conditioning me beyond my ability to analyze it and release it all.
But all the Christian upbringing in the world did not help me forgive, but in fact taught me more to note offense.
I don't know why it was how I was. I do know you could not understand it, but the first thing you chose to do was forgive me for it.
"You are being so ridiculous," you said. "You know, you really need to let things go. People make mistakes."
I know I did, and you pointed that out rather directly. Of course, I was pondering the loss of $500 at a friends' hand over a computer that did not work. I had known him for a year or so, and had decided he was no friend. Worse, his private disclosures were now reason to hold in that anger.
"I know he had meth problems," I said. "A few years ago. Maybe he ripped me off for that. At least he could pretend to want to help me out and cover his tracks."
You looked at me and sat down, you kissed my cheek. "He'll come help," you said. "But you can't be upset all weekend. You're ruining my time with you."
So I learned to let go in the form of moving on, neither forgetting nor forgiving. But you soon picked that out when I next saw him, nearly two years on.
He was working at an airport bookstore and smiled when he saw me. He smiled and waved us over. You tugged me to the counter and greeted him.
He told us he had moved and gotten a new job, and he apologized for the computer after we had some small talk. "I needed the money to move, I am sorry, dude," he said.
I started in on him. "That was weak and it was wrong," I said. "You could have asked to borrow or maybe for some side work, right? What, were you on drugs again?"
You squeezed my arm and he looked down. He told us about losing his wife in divorce, finding her cheating and having found his own account empty and hers closed with their shared on the next day. "I was ashamed, man, I was."
I shrugged and bought you Entertainment Weekly before you boarded your plane. I was ashamed, too. You, however, showed me something important.
"That's all very sad," you said. "But he ripped you off and I am sorry he did that to you. You deserve to be treated better, sweety, and I don't think you should talk to him again."
"I thought you said I had to learn to let things go?" I said.
"Well, you should, but I also think you have a big heart and people like him take advantage of everyone they can," you said. "I never liked him or his wife, but I know I did not want you to brood and you were."
I took out his business card and tossed it into the trash. You hugged me and a few minutes later we let go so you could fly north for a visit with your friend.
I smiled and I said, "You think I have a big heart?" I asked.
You smiled and tsk'd at my attention-seeking, "Yes, I do. It's something I love about you. I just want you to strike a balance between that and being judgmental."
And I have. I spent that weekend without you reviewing an old list, yellow on its first pages and white on its newest, crossing people and the offenses they had committed against me off of it. I burned it in the barbecue while our neighbor Cami looked on.
"Wishes?" she asked. "Are you burning your wishes for the genies?"
I smiled and looked up at her. "No, I am forgiving some people I should have done that for a long time ago."
I did not tell you what I had done, and I did not tell you how many times I had not added a name to that list when you soothed my hurt and anger before I burned it.
I will tell you that I am slower to take personal offense, fast to let it go, and completely willing to accept the known risks of people's foibles, and to either include them or exclude them from my life based on that critical calculus you gave me.
"It's important to forgive people for yourself," you said. "Sometimes, you should try to forget what they did to hurt you, too. But you shouldn't always forget, because some people don't make mistakes, they're just never going to be good to you."
When you told me that, I saw that rare and absolutely heartbreaking look cross your face in a blink of an eye, and I wondered what it was you were remembering.
But I am glad I do not know, because it may have revived the list, or maybe would have been something I did that made you gulp like that. By then, I had not learned the one most important lesson of your whole outlook.
I had not learned to forgive myself.
I have been rummaging through gifts, reflecting on all of those you gave me. Some of them are more abstract, and this one no less so, perhaps moreso, than any other. You taught me to forgive again.
I do not know where I had learned to never trust anyone, or to take every offense as some permanent black stain that could never be removed, but when we met, it was how I was. With your example, and your encouragement, I can honestly say this is no more
Perhaps it was the vast echo chamber of my sprawling family, where first mention of a given offense by someone may not be heard in all corners for years. Even then, notoriety was easily created as exaggeration replaced information. But some in my family were more forgiving than begrudging.
Perhaps it was in my upbringing at Catholic school, where a permanent record meant yearly carryover of every demerit. Or perhaps in foster care, where every element of behavior, once written down, became a guide for every person who touched your life, or passed you along to the next.
Perhaps it was in receiving too many wounds too quickly to heal them all. A backlog of bitterness, a pattern of pain conditioning me beyond my ability to analyze it and release it all.
But all the Christian upbringing in the world did not help me forgive, but in fact taught me more to note offense.
I don't know why it was how I was. I do know you could not understand it, but the first thing you chose to do was forgive me for it.
"You are being so ridiculous," you said. "You know, you really need to let things go. People make mistakes."
I know I did, and you pointed that out rather directly. Of course, I was pondering the loss of $500 at a friends' hand over a computer that did not work. I had known him for a year or so, and had decided he was no friend. Worse, his private disclosures were now reason to hold in that anger.
"I know he had meth problems," I said. "A few years ago. Maybe he ripped me off for that. At least he could pretend to want to help me out and cover his tracks."
You looked at me and sat down, you kissed my cheek. "He'll come help," you said. "But you can't be upset all weekend. You're ruining my time with you."
So I learned to let go in the form of moving on, neither forgetting nor forgiving. But you soon picked that out when I next saw him, nearly two years on.
He was working at an airport bookstore and smiled when he saw me. He smiled and waved us over. You tugged me to the counter and greeted him.
He told us he had moved and gotten a new job, and he apologized for the computer after we had some small talk. "I needed the money to move, I am sorry, dude," he said.
I started in on him. "That was weak and it was wrong," I said. "You could have asked to borrow or maybe for some side work, right? What, were you on drugs again?"
You squeezed my arm and he looked down. He told us about losing his wife in divorce, finding her cheating and having found his own account empty and hers closed with their shared on the next day. "I was ashamed, man, I was."
I shrugged and bought you Entertainment Weekly before you boarded your plane. I was ashamed, too. You, however, showed me something important.
"That's all very sad," you said. "But he ripped you off and I am sorry he did that to you. You deserve to be treated better, sweety, and I don't think you should talk to him again."
"I thought you said I had to learn to let things go?" I said.
"Well, you should, but I also think you have a big heart and people like him take advantage of everyone they can," you said. "I never liked him or his wife, but I know I did not want you to brood and you were."
I took out his business card and tossed it into the trash. You hugged me and a few minutes later we let go so you could fly north for a visit with your friend.
I smiled and I said, "You think I have a big heart?" I asked.
You smiled and tsk'd at my attention-seeking, "Yes, I do. It's something I love about you. I just want you to strike a balance between that and being judgmental."
And I have. I spent that weekend without you reviewing an old list, yellow on its first pages and white on its newest, crossing people and the offenses they had committed against me off of it. I burned it in the barbecue while our neighbor Cami looked on.
"Wishes?" she asked. "Are you burning your wishes for the genies?"
I smiled and looked up at her. "No, I am forgiving some people I should have done that for a long time ago."
I did not tell you what I had done, and I did not tell you how many times I had not added a name to that list when you soothed my hurt and anger before I burned it.
I will tell you that I am slower to take personal offense, fast to let it go, and completely willing to accept the known risks of people's foibles, and to either include them or exclude them from my life based on that critical calculus you gave me.
"It's important to forgive people for yourself," you said. "Sometimes, you should try to forget what they did to hurt you, too. But you shouldn't always forget, because some people don't make mistakes, they're just never going to be good to you."
When you told me that, I saw that rare and absolutely heartbreaking look cross your face in a blink of an eye, and I wondered what it was you were remembering.
But I am glad I do not know, because it may have revived the list, or maybe would have been something I did that made you gulp like that. By then, I had not learned the one most important lesson of your whole outlook.
I had not learned to forgive myself.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Anniversary
You were here.
I smelled your perfume around me.
I felt your warmth beside me.
I heard your voice behind me.
I tasted your lips against me.
I knew your soul as my own.
I saw your face before me.
You were mine.
I woke to you each morning.
I lived for you every day.
I ran to you each evening.
I held you every night.
I cherished every moment.
We were one.
We lived in our communion.
We loved and feared in union.
We walked beside each other.
We shared with one another.
We faced the world together.
We were strong.
Our love seemed never ending.
Our faith was unrelenting.
Our passion was unbridled.
Our bond could not be broken.
Our hearts could conquer all.
I am thankful.
Your loving touch transformed me.
Your gentle ways reformed me.
Your happy manner healed me.
Your patient probes revealed me.
Your lightness helped me soar.
I am here.
I know you are around me.
I know your warmth's beside me.
I know your voice will guide me.
I'll taste your lips against me.
I'll see your face before me.
I smelled your perfume around me.
I felt your warmth beside me.
I heard your voice behind me.
I tasted your lips against me.
I knew your soul as my own.
I saw your face before me.
You were mine.
I woke to you each morning.
I lived for you every day.
I ran to you each evening.
I held you every night.
I cherished every moment.
We were one.
We lived in our communion.
We loved and feared in union.
We walked beside each other.
We shared with one another.
We faced the world together.
We were strong.
Our love seemed never ending.
Our faith was unrelenting.
Our passion was unbridled.
Our bond could not be broken.
Our hearts could conquer all.
I am thankful.
Your loving touch transformed me.
Your gentle ways reformed me.
Your happy manner healed me.
Your patient probes revealed me.
Your lightness helped me soar.
I am here.
I know you are around me.
I know your warmth's beside me.
I know your voice will guide me.
I'll taste your lips against me.
I'll see your face before me.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Letter To Marcie - Cooking
To my dear Marcie,
I wanted to thank you about something I do almost every day, which I enjoy, and which I might have given up if it were not for you. Cooking.
I know, I know. I knew how to cook when we met. But you gave me the right and the appreciation for my cooking that made me wanty to cook. You inspired me to branch out, to try new vegetables, foods and tastes.
Most of all, you did not snicker when I told you I knew how to cook.
I learned how to cook passively until my early youth. Watching my father and grandma Pruett, my mother in much younger years, and my Aunt Gemma lent me a curiosity I never had the approval to pursue at home. But I watched and memorized their tricks.
My Aunt Gemma let me cook an omelet once. She was impressed that I had learned to flip it without breaking it. I was 12.
In foster care, I gravitated to the kitchen to observe the preparation of mass meals and learned how to cook in bulk, but with flavor. It was wonderful, and I occasionally got to help, even preparing my first meal for others in a group home at 16.
We had baked chicken breast with carmelized onion and lemon-soaked garlic on top, a side of home-made french fires, a salad with my own dressing, and vegetables were carrots and broccoli, lightly steamed and served with a ramekin of teriyaki and veggie broth.
I did not cook much except for myself after that farewell meal, but I always wanted to again.
You cooked for me and opened the world of French and Italian cuisine. You showed me that different potato types had different uses, not all peppers are green and bell, and convinced me to make my own sauces, fusing the tastes I knew well with those you loved.
You expanded me (in more ways than one). You gave me cooking. I don't know if that kind of inspiration will come from any women I might meet in the future.
You also let me experiment, you let me cook for you, and you honed my skills with knives and tools and techniques, and you taught me a little baking, though I will never be the better of the two of us in that department, either.
What I appreciate most was that you understood that I did not cook to threaten your domestic standing or make you irrelevant, and that if I was better at some style of food than you were, you left it to me.
You did not make me feel less anything for my little hobby, and making you smile when I cooked was always a proud and happy thing. Thank you for doing that every time, even when I know I had as many misses as hits in my cuisine.
There is so much more. Until next time...
Love,
F
I wanted to thank you about something I do almost every day, which I enjoy, and which I might have given up if it were not for you. Cooking.
I know, I know. I knew how to cook when we met. But you gave me the right and the appreciation for my cooking that made me wanty to cook. You inspired me to branch out, to try new vegetables, foods and tastes.
Most of all, you did not snicker when I told you I knew how to cook.
I learned how to cook passively until my early youth. Watching my father and grandma Pruett, my mother in much younger years, and my Aunt Gemma lent me a curiosity I never had the approval to pursue at home. But I watched and memorized their tricks.
My Aunt Gemma let me cook an omelet once. She was impressed that I had learned to flip it without breaking it. I was 12.
In foster care, I gravitated to the kitchen to observe the preparation of mass meals and learned how to cook in bulk, but with flavor. It was wonderful, and I occasionally got to help, even preparing my first meal for others in a group home at 16.
We had baked chicken breast with carmelized onion and lemon-soaked garlic on top, a side of home-made french fires, a salad with my own dressing, and vegetables were carrots and broccoli, lightly steamed and served with a ramekin of teriyaki and veggie broth.
I did not cook much except for myself after that farewell meal, but I always wanted to again.
You cooked for me and opened the world of French and Italian cuisine. You showed me that different potato types had different uses, not all peppers are green and bell, and convinced me to make my own sauces, fusing the tastes I knew well with those you loved.
You expanded me (in more ways than one). You gave me cooking. I don't know if that kind of inspiration will come from any women I might meet in the future.
You also let me experiment, you let me cook for you, and you honed my skills with knives and tools and techniques, and you taught me a little baking, though I will never be the better of the two of us in that department, either.
What I appreciate most was that you understood that I did not cook to threaten your domestic standing or make you irrelevant, and that if I was better at some style of food than you were, you left it to me.
You did not make me feel less anything for my little hobby, and making you smile when I cooked was always a proud and happy thing. Thank you for doing that every time, even when I know I had as many misses as hits in my cuisine.
There is so much more. Until next time...
Love,
F
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Letter to Marcie: Politics
So, I am sitting here after a long election night, thinking of you and some of the things we used to talk about. I remember how we meshed politically immediately, you care for people and disdain for close-mindedness a good match to my own.
Remember when you found out Hillary was running? I remember we didn't agree on her as a good choice. I was mostly concerned with electability, because she polarized people so much. You were mostly happy a woman couls be running for president.
Well, Hillary didn't make it in. Obama did. I remember that I liked Edwards but I preferred Obama, while you liked Obama from the beginning and thought Edwards might have more important things to do.
Yeah, he did. But he did worse than neglect those, it turns out.
At any rate, the only person we both decided we did not hate on the other side, John McCain, was their choice for a Republican candidate.
Hillary and Obama fought a running, bruising battle that saw her even invoke potential assassination a la Bobby Kennedy... a definite low moment. In the end, Obama prevailed and our polarized party pulled together for a big battle.
McCain was not doing well at first, but he managed to shake things up by picking a woman as his running mate... Srah Palin. Wow, what a crazy, apparently ignorant thing she was. She helped for all of five minutes.
Obama just moved forward with poise and grace, and he won. We have that Black president you thought would never happen. What a moment it was when they called it for Obama. People cried, sweety. I didn't until I got home.
Regardless that Palin claimed she could see Russia from her front door in Alaska, or that she did not know that Africa was a continent, or that she did not know who was part of NAFTA, consider that the Republicans offered the first female vice president
while the Democrats offered the first black president.
Looks like America was in the mood for the greater of two changes. Strange, huh?
I am pretty proud of my country right now. I wish we had been here to toast it and discuss it, as we did every election.
I walked my precinct again for the Dems, and man was it heartening. It was similar to 2004 but there were some great things missing... like you.
I missed my hug when I came home, your smile and your pride and encouragement for me, but I know that you are watching, and I know some time I will hear about it all... the good and the bad, since you departed me. Maybe in a dream, who knows?
I miss you, but the world is being kinder to me these days, and I just feel like somehow you are helping that along in your own way.
I love and miss you,
F.
Remember when you found out Hillary was running? I remember we didn't agree on her as a good choice. I was mostly concerned with electability, because she polarized people so much. You were mostly happy a woman couls be running for president.
Well, Hillary didn't make it in. Obama did. I remember that I liked Edwards but I preferred Obama, while you liked Obama from the beginning and thought Edwards might have more important things to do.
Yeah, he did. But he did worse than neglect those, it turns out.
At any rate, the only person we both decided we did not hate on the other side, John McCain, was their choice for a Republican candidate.
Hillary and Obama fought a running, bruising battle that saw her even invoke potential assassination a la Bobby Kennedy... a definite low moment. In the end, Obama prevailed and our polarized party pulled together for a big battle.
McCain was not doing well at first, but he managed to shake things up by picking a woman as his running mate... Srah Palin. Wow, what a crazy, apparently ignorant thing she was. She helped for all of five minutes.
Obama just moved forward with poise and grace, and he won. We have that Black president you thought would never happen. What a moment it was when they called it for Obama. People cried, sweety. I didn't until I got home.
Regardless that Palin claimed she could see Russia from her front door in Alaska, or that she did not know that Africa was a continent, or that she did not know who was part of NAFTA, consider that the Republicans offered the first female vice president
while the Democrats offered the first black president.
Looks like America was in the mood for the greater of two changes. Strange, huh?
I am pretty proud of my country right now. I wish we had been here to toast it and discuss it, as we did every election.
I walked my precinct again for the Dems, and man was it heartening. It was similar to 2004 but there were some great things missing... like you.
I missed my hug when I came home, your smile and your pride and encouragement for me, but I know that you are watching, and I know some time I will hear about it all... the good and the bad, since you departed me. Maybe in a dream, who knows?
I miss you, but the world is being kinder to me these days, and I just feel like somehow you are helping that along in your own way.
I love and miss you,
F.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Letter to Marcie-Music
Dear Marcie,
You gave me music. Of course, in the figurative sense, we made beautiful music together. But you gave me music from people I had not before appreciated.
Who knew I would learn to like some of these things. Sure, we had our common ground, U2,The Who, English Beat, The Cure. So many others... but you gave me the idea that current did not necessarily mean "sucks." I am so very grateful.
You always stretched the edges a bit. You went from ABBA and Beegees to ZZ Top and the Cars, to Tori Amos and Sara Maclauchlan and back to Led Zeppelin, over to Soft Cell, The Violent Femmes and Concrete Blonde, even some Sex Pistols and threw in a little En Vogue and Mya.
I remember flipping between 101.5 and 91X, 102.1 and occasioanlly 94.9 You indulged my need to listen to classical, and you even had your own favorites in that genre. We had a million songs just for us, all of them based on something or some sweet moment we were living together in.
I Have saved your last MP3 set. I hear so much in them and I had to stop listening for a bit. I will get back to them. You communicated so much in that music, in those songs. I will finish and think about each of them, no matter how much it aches, I promise.
I am most grateful to you for introducing me to the songbirds of our age. There is nothing that lulls me to sleep and calm or just relaxation like a songbird's voice. I have been accused by a friend of being "pretty damn Lilith Fair for how aggro your are."
Yeah, it was Dean. Of course you knew that, right?
Well, there was only one voice i truly could not stay angry in the presence of, and it was yours. It still is, actually. I so love when I can recall it and you are so clear in my heart and my ears. When you visit in dreams, it echoes for weeks.
It is and was a small but potent part of you that I still cherish. Thank you for both the music I listen to now, the broadening of my tastes, and the sweetness of your own music in my soul.
I know you did not like her, my sweet, but one person I never won you over on was Natalie Merchant. However, she does ring a note in me, and sometimes as much with her words as her voice.
This last discovery crushed me at first, but I realize now that much of it would never be. I could never disappoint you by not finishing my work here, but the song is beautiful, and I wish I had the years with you it is written around.
Someone did justice to the song in pictures. I wish I had seen us at that age, but that will never be. We deserved to see those days, I know that.
For now, my love, good night.
Me
Someday I will sing this song myself, and change just one word. When I do, I will share it with all of you in a more illustrative video of Marcie and I.
You gave me music. Of course, in the figurative sense, we made beautiful music together. But you gave me music from people I had not before appreciated.
Who knew I would learn to like some of these things. Sure, we had our common ground, U2,The Who, English Beat, The Cure. So many others... but you gave me the idea that current did not necessarily mean "sucks." I am so very grateful.
You always stretched the edges a bit. You went from ABBA and Beegees to ZZ Top and the Cars, to Tori Amos and Sara Maclauchlan and back to Led Zeppelin, over to Soft Cell, The Violent Femmes and Concrete Blonde, even some Sex Pistols and threw in a little En Vogue and Mya.
I remember flipping between 101.5 and 91X, 102.1 and occasioanlly 94.9 You indulged my need to listen to classical, and you even had your own favorites in that genre. We had a million songs just for us, all of them based on something or some sweet moment we were living together in.
I Have saved your last MP3 set. I hear so much in them and I had to stop listening for a bit. I will get back to them. You communicated so much in that music, in those songs. I will finish and think about each of them, no matter how much it aches, I promise.
I am most grateful to you for introducing me to the songbirds of our age. There is nothing that lulls me to sleep and calm or just relaxation like a songbird's voice. I have been accused by a friend of being "pretty damn Lilith Fair for how aggro your are."
Yeah, it was Dean. Of course you knew that, right?
Well, there was only one voice i truly could not stay angry in the presence of, and it was yours. It still is, actually. I so love when I can recall it and you are so clear in my heart and my ears. When you visit in dreams, it echoes for weeks.
It is and was a small but potent part of you that I still cherish. Thank you for both the music I listen to now, the broadening of my tastes, and the sweetness of your own music in my soul.
I know you did not like her, my sweet, but one person I never won you over on was Natalie Merchant. However, she does ring a note in me, and sometimes as much with her words as her voice.
This last discovery crushed me at first, but I realize now that much of it would never be. I could never disappoint you by not finishing my work here, but the song is beautiful, and I wish I had the years with you it is written around.
Someone did justice to the song in pictures. I wish I had seen us at that age, but that will never be. We deserved to see those days, I know that.
For now, my love, good night.
Me
Someday I will sing this song myself, and change just one word. When I do, I will share it with all of you in a more illustrative video of Marcie and I.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
A letter to Marcie
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
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
Sunday, October 12, 2008
A quiet time at a loud place
So, yesterday I went to a birthday party at Dean's for Braxton, a freshly minted Devilish Deuce of a boy. It made me reflect on Marcie and I and how we saw the question of kids. Well, I won't cover that here, but soon in another post.
Yesterday, as I sat with a friend and watched a small army of toddlers bounce, eat cake and generally enjoy life, I noticed on thing lacking: a redhead child. There was not one in the over a dozen present.
Well, it was still an interesting time.
At any rate, Marcie was not one to spend time with our friends or do kids' birthday parties unless they were for her close friends, like Chrissy's. But she may have enjoyed this one in the cool winds of autumn on Mt. Helix.
Thanks, Dean-O and Joey, for a great time and a nice, life-affirming event. These weeks, I need those. And happy birthday, Braxton :)
Yesterday, as I sat with a friend and watched a small army of toddlers bounce, eat cake and generally enjoy life, I noticed on thing lacking: a redhead child. There was not one in the over a dozen present.
Well, it was still an interesting time.
At any rate, Marcie was not one to spend time with our friends or do kids' birthday parties unless they were for her close friends, like Chrissy's. But she may have enjoyed this one in the cool winds of autumn on Mt. Helix.
Thanks, Dean-O and Joey, for a great time and a nice, life-affirming event. These weeks, I need those. And happy birthday, Braxton :)
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The HK Visit - Butterflies
It was all about the butterflies.
By this I knew right away, or at least believed, the thought that she was not really here, and she could not be. But I wanted to, and I wanted to touch her, so I sat at the table.
"They are really nice, honey," she said, her voice rising on the last syllable in the way that told me she was pleased. She slid her pale, cool hand over to my forearm and looked me in the eyes.
And I smiled and thought, "Of course she likes them, because she is just in my head right now, and I have been collecting those butterfly pictures slowly and agonizingly for a week."
"I am glad you like them," I said. "Some of the best are too active to catch, and none of them seem to like to display when they rest."
She pulled them out of her purse, the brown one she always loved to carry and smiled, flipping through them. I walked around and stared at her face as she perused them. She sighed quietly.
"I love that you send these to me," she said. "I have every picture you've ever sent."
I thought to myself, "I have very few pictures of us together, I regret that so badly," and gulped, holding her hand.
"I know you regret it, honey," she said. "I know you do. But you don't need proof of anything. Everyone knows I love you and everyone knows you love me."
I fished around for my camera and she posed, smiling, then I set the camera on the dilapidated Coke refrigerator Mrs. Chan owned and set the timer. She smiled and bit her lower lip, then slid onto my lap.
I managed a smile, and as she turned and her big, blue, beautiful eyes sank into mine she became a blur, and tears burned down my cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" she asked. "Oh, honey. It's okay. It's okay..."
I thought, "I am crying because she is dead, she is not on Lamma, she is not even here in the dream with me. She is just a memory and a fantasy and I have not even printed a picture in a year."
She squeezed me against her chest and I felt and heard her heart beat against mine. She whispered, "If I am all those things and not me, aren't you grateful you have such a clear memory of me?"
I nodded and she kissed my nose. She wiped my tears with her thumbs and stoked my hair. "You're taking care of yourself," she said. "Thank you."
I shrugged.
She shook her head and sighed. "People lose the people who died before them because they become convinced that everything is just in their heads about their feelings of this whole hard, sad loss of that connection is real, and they think the dead can't feel or learn or change."
I looked up at her and they were all blue, then they opened and I sank into them again. I lost sight of all but those blue pools of unfathomable kindness and gentle love, and I knew that though she may not have been there at first, she was now.
I looked away, at Mrs. Chan and her peers, who now ignored us utterly, as opposed to the furtive, slightly annoyed glances they offered before.
"I love you," I said, the hot stng of tears on my face again.
"I know," she said. "You love me like I never left, because you know I never did. And I have felt it the whole time. Every thought of me, all your pains, your little offerings and your tears, I feel them all."
I nodded and sighed. "I know, sometimes they must be very sad."
"No, sweetie, no," she said, her cool skin against my face in her decolletage a sweet relief from the Honk Kong humidity. "You are so good to me, you don't even know."
I looked up and she smiled, but then looked concerned. "Don't throw me away, though, okay?" she asked.
I was confused and hurt all at once. I looked up at her and felt great weight.
"Don't disperse it all, not all of me," she said. "I love what you want to do for me. I love that I am here with you, that your love is so very strong. But don't let all of me go."
I nodded and croaked, "Okay."
"Letting me be free is not the same as letting go of me forever, and I don't want to let go of you, and I don't want you to let go of me," she said, holding my hand. "Keep a little of me close, sweetie, just a little."
And I was sure she was there now, so I asked, petulantly, sadly "Do you miss me?"
She gulped and sighed, "I can see you any time I want," she said. "I don't miss you. But I do know you miss me terribly, and I wish you could be with me as easily as I can be with you. But I am sometimes sad that you are in so much pain."
"I'll see you as often as I can," I said.
We stared out at a sunset over the ocean as the day closed, and I leaned against her as she sat in my lap.
As I woke, the heat of Lamma on my skin in the night was less where I felt she had been, and the absolute quiet slowly faded into the sounds of a less reverent night of a living island.
I knew she had been by and I was solemn for the moment. As I went to sleep again, Istarted awake at the sound of a voice.
I think it said, "I'm looking forward to the turtles."
By this I knew right away, or at least believed, the thought that she was not really here, and she could not be. But I wanted to, and I wanted to touch her, so I sat at the table.
"They are really nice, honey," she said, her voice rising on the last syllable in the way that told me she was pleased. She slid her pale, cool hand over to my forearm and looked me in the eyes.
And I smiled and thought, "Of course she likes them, because she is just in my head right now, and I have been collecting those butterfly pictures slowly and agonizingly for a week."
"I am glad you like them," I said. "Some of the best are too active to catch, and none of them seem to like to display when they rest."
She pulled them out of her purse, the brown one she always loved to carry and smiled, flipping through them. I walked around and stared at her face as she perused them. She sighed quietly.
"I love that you send these to me," she said. "I have every picture you've ever sent."
The Butterflies of Lamma - For Marcie
I thought to myself, "I have very few pictures of us together, I regret that so badly," and gulped, holding her hand.
"I know you regret it, honey," she said. "I know you do. But you don't need proof of anything. Everyone knows I love you and everyone knows you love me."
I fished around for my camera and she posed, smiling, then I set the camera on the dilapidated Coke refrigerator Mrs. Chan owned and set the timer. She smiled and bit her lower lip, then slid onto my lap.
I managed a smile, and as she turned and her big, blue, beautiful eyes sank into mine she became a blur, and tears burned down my cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" she asked. "Oh, honey. It's okay. It's okay..."
I thought, "I am crying because she is dead, she is not on Lamma, she is not even here in the dream with me. She is just a memory and a fantasy and I have not even printed a picture in a year."
She squeezed me against her chest and I felt and heard her heart beat against mine. She whispered, "If I am all those things and not me, aren't you grateful you have such a clear memory of me?"
I nodded and she kissed my nose. She wiped my tears with her thumbs and stoked my hair. "You're taking care of yourself," she said. "Thank you."
I shrugged.
She shook her head and sighed. "People lose the people who died before them because they become convinced that everything is just in their heads about their feelings of this whole hard, sad loss of that connection is real, and they think the dead can't feel or learn or change."
I looked up at her and they were all blue, then they opened and I sank into them again. I lost sight of all but those blue pools of unfathomable kindness and gentle love, and I knew that though she may not have been there at first, she was now.
I looked away, at Mrs. Chan and her peers, who now ignored us utterly, as opposed to the furtive, slightly annoyed glances they offered before.
"I love you," I said, the hot stng of tears on my face again.
"I know," she said. "You love me like I never left, because you know I never did. And I have felt it the whole time. Every thought of me, all your pains, your little offerings and your tears, I feel them all."
I nodded and sighed. "I know, sometimes they must be very sad."
"No, sweetie, no," she said, her cool skin against my face in her decolletage a sweet relief from the Honk Kong humidity. "You are so good to me, you don't even know."
I looked up and she smiled, but then looked concerned. "Don't throw me away, though, okay?" she asked.
I was confused and hurt all at once. I looked up at her and felt great weight.
"Don't disperse it all, not all of me," she said. "I love what you want to do for me. I love that I am here with you, that your love is so very strong. But don't let all of me go."
I nodded and croaked, "Okay."
"Letting me be free is not the same as letting go of me forever, and I don't want to let go of you, and I don't want you to let go of me," she said, holding my hand. "Keep a little of me close, sweetie, just a little."
And I was sure she was there now, so I asked, petulantly, sadly "Do you miss me?"
She gulped and sighed, "I can see you any time I want," she said. "I don't miss you. But I do know you miss me terribly, and I wish you could be with me as easily as I can be with you. But I am sometimes sad that you are in so much pain."
"I'll see you as often as I can," I said.
As I woke, the heat of Lamma on my skin in the night was less where I felt she had been, and the absolute quiet slowly faded into the sounds of a less reverent night of a living island.
I knew she had been by and I was solemn for the moment. As I went to sleep again, Istarted awake at the sound of a voice.
I think it said, "I'm looking forward to the turtles."
Monday, August 11, 2008
San Francisco Trip Part 2
Ah, vacation(s). On August 29th, I will be in San Francisco, visiting Jane and Christina and perhaps scouting. This is something I have been forced to put off time and time again as the school district and other items have thrown me curve balls.
Just know that there will be many images and possibly some films. Unfortunately, the long trip along Big Sur from last time will not be repeated. I am a flying fool.
There will be a visit to Izakaya for sure. I wonder if everything is still "gorgeouth."
Muahaha. I plan to wreck the place. Hell, I need to. In a Marcie-approved way, of course.
When booking my little room in Japantown, I noted all rooms are for two adults (assumed) when reserved. Sure I am happy to be going, but those little things really sober you up.
Just know that there will be many images and possibly some films. Unfortunately, the long trip along Big Sur from last time will not be repeated. I am a flying fool.
There will be a visit to Izakaya for sure. I wonder if everything is still "gorgeouth."
Muahaha. I plan to wreck the place. Hell, I need to. In a Marcie-approved way, of course.
When booking my little room in Japantown, I noted all rooms are for two adults (assumed) when reserved. Sure I am happy to be going, but those little things really sober you up.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Our One-Time Sod Anniversary
I made mention of a brief visit to the Ould Sod here. Last night was the anniverary of that little visit, and also corresponded to friend's invitation to go listen to some music. I have come to spend a couple nights a week, an hour or two at a time, in the Sod.
I have reviewed the Ould Sod on my Yelp page. They've been good to me, and I hope to make them the sendoff party location when I pack up and sail away from San Diego for good. We'll see.
I had an enjoyable time listening to the strains of Irish folk music, all instrumental, being played. I just pine for a Irish lass to belt a tune or two out along with the band. That would be something, now wouldn't it?
Of course, I would also settle for the off-key-but-adorable redhead wandering around the house and trying her best to sing whatever song was on her mp3 player at the top of her lungs. That would be something for sure.
On the Sod, I will post pictures later. I ran into my first professor of philosophy there last night, and he's a cool guy.
I have reviewed the Ould Sod on my Yelp page. They've been good to me, and I hope to make them the sendoff party location when I pack up and sail away from San Diego for good. We'll see.
I had an enjoyable time listening to the strains of Irish folk music, all instrumental, being played. I just pine for a Irish lass to belt a tune or two out along with the band. That would be something, now wouldn't it?
Of course, I would also settle for the off-key-but-adorable redhead wandering around the house and trying her best to sing whatever song was on her mp3 player at the top of her lungs. That would be something for sure.
On the Sod, I will post pictures later. I ran into my first professor of philosophy there last night, and he's a cool guy.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
A Moment with Marcie-Epilogue
It was the most clear and concrete long dream I have had of her, this last one, and there was of course a lot that I left out. But I think what was most striking, both in the garden and tea house-cum-shrine-cum pagoda, was how direct Marcie was.
One of the things that most bothered Marcie was that I took my time to decide on a course of action or a matter at hand. It frustrated her.
In most of my dreams, there is a modicum of control. I can manipulate the world at will around me and change the scene however I like. But in dreams with Marcie, things do not always work my way.
However, our conversations have always been very soft. This last dream was much more eye-to-eye, There was something she needed.
I always ask myself if what we dream is simply the firing of random neurons and nothing more. This always has put a sad little doubt in my dreams of her. But I think what Marcie's message was went well beyond, "I am real."
Marcie, in the place she visited me, wanted me to see these visits as just that and take them at face value. We discussed them long before she passed and she promised me them. She also said she might not know how she would feel about it.
Marcie was concerned I would never move on. She was right in her own way. I will take my time, likely infuriating her with my "Hemming and hawing" as much as this post, "agonizing" and analyzing the dream, probably makes her toss her hands up, roll her eyes and sigh.
Inasmuch as she can, that is.
What strikes me is not that she simply says, "I am who I am." That came across very strongly in my dream. Her honeymoon with the hereafter and her confusion were not even on the table. Her eyes were open and she was playful but sharp and incisive.
Of course, the question remains as to whether or not the dream is just a random firing of neurons that line up in a very favorable or enjoyable way. I think her answer is that it doesn't matter.
Mine is that as well. I agree with her reasoning, that she will be with me whether I decide she is not there (and suffer), or decide she is and embrace it. But I also agree for my own reason.
Even if everything is the pseudo random or random firing of neurons as far as how we perceive and experience the world and our minds in a dream state, the fact that Marcie did not "guess" what I was thinking and was off a bit was very important.
We can convince ourselves of anything, but the fact that something in me wants to be convinced to have an open mind on this situation and its implications.
So my reasoning is this: in life we were two people who grew to become a part of each other in addition to being our own separate selves. That which I took in from Marcie continues within me. I did not always agree with or understand her, and she did not always agree with or understand me.
That being said, it does not matter if she is made of memories and patterns and thoughts, or she is simply a soul coming to visit me when I am open to her or most able to sense her. That is not important or valuable.
The fact that I can experience her and her motives and personality in such a detailed way that we still do not have the same mind on things, that she left in me an understanding and a bit of her will so strong it makes its point and mistakes mine means I can continue to learn from her.
I don't care what the nature of it all is, as far as her presence's source.
Some ask me about all of this and faith. f it is a question of faith, then I will simply say that what faith I have is vested in the idea that we all continue to affect the universe as the ripples of our presence , relationships and actions multiply and go on.
That the phenomena that we collect around our existence, which can be said to describe us, now may lack one companion, "physically alive," in their company does not mean that they do not grow in number, or that we no longer direct them to.
I enjoy that she is still there at all, and I would rather agonize a little than decide, then get too hard-headed and -hearted to accept that beautiful maybe it all implies. And if I am just enjoying a little ripple of her presences, then it's a good wave to ride.
One of the things that most bothered Marcie was that I took my time to decide on a course of action or a matter at hand. It frustrated her.
In most of my dreams, there is a modicum of control. I can manipulate the world at will around me and change the scene however I like. But in dreams with Marcie, things do not always work my way.
However, our conversations have always been very soft. This last dream was much more eye-to-eye, There was something she needed.
I always ask myself if what we dream is simply the firing of random neurons and nothing more. This always has put a sad little doubt in my dreams of her. But I think what Marcie's message was went well beyond, "I am real."
Marcie, in the place she visited me, wanted me to see these visits as just that and take them at face value. We discussed them long before she passed and she promised me them. She also said she might not know how she would feel about it.
Marcie was concerned I would never move on. She was right in her own way. I will take my time, likely infuriating her with my "Hemming and hawing" as much as this post, "agonizing" and analyzing the dream, probably makes her toss her hands up, roll her eyes and sigh.
Inasmuch as she can, that is.
What strikes me is not that she simply says, "I am who I am." That came across very strongly in my dream. Her honeymoon with the hereafter and her confusion were not even on the table. Her eyes were open and she was playful but sharp and incisive.
Of course, the question remains as to whether or not the dream is just a random firing of neurons that line up in a very favorable or enjoyable way. I think her answer is that it doesn't matter.
Mine is that as well. I agree with her reasoning, that she will be with me whether I decide she is not there (and suffer), or decide she is and embrace it. But I also agree for my own reason.
Even if everything is the pseudo random or random firing of neurons as far as how we perceive and experience the world and our minds in a dream state, the fact that Marcie did not "guess" what I was thinking and was off a bit was very important.
We can convince ourselves of anything, but the fact that something in me wants to be convinced to have an open mind on this situation and its implications.
So my reasoning is this: in life we were two people who grew to become a part of each other in addition to being our own separate selves. That which I took in from Marcie continues within me. I did not always agree with or understand her, and she did not always agree with or understand me.
That being said, it does not matter if she is made of memories and patterns and thoughts, or she is simply a soul coming to visit me when I am open to her or most able to sense her. That is not important or valuable.
The fact that I can experience her and her motives and personality in such a detailed way that we still do not have the same mind on things, that she left in me an understanding and a bit of her will so strong it makes its point and mistakes mine means I can continue to learn from her.
I don't care what the nature of it all is, as far as her presence's source.
Some ask me about all of this and faith. f it is a question of faith, then I will simply say that what faith I have is vested in the idea that we all continue to affect the universe as the ripples of our presence , relationships and actions multiply and go on.
That the phenomena that we collect around our existence, which can be said to describe us, now may lack one companion, "physically alive," in their company does not mean that they do not grow in number, or that we no longer direct them to.
I enjoy that she is still there at all, and I would rather agonize a little than decide, then get too hard-headed and -hearted to accept that beautiful maybe it all implies. And if I am just enjoying a little ripple of her presences, then it's a good wave to ride.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 5)
It was drawing closer, and Marcie had determined the precise moment of my borthday's optimal celebration. This provided the proper framework, of course, for the preparation of lists, acquisition of goods and formulation of plans.
The third element created a quandary for me. Marcie was a person who knew immediately what she most wanted within any genre of selection proffered. Cake? Why, chocolate, of course, with chocolate butter-cream frosting.
For me, there were factors and moods and potential changes of mind to consider. I honestly didn't try to drive her insane. I was just quite a natural at it.
"Honey, it's a simple question," she said, dropping her hands to her sides, one with the pen and the other with her "special list for baking" pad. She leaned forward and rolled her eyes up as I responded.
"Well, it's liek two weeks away and I don't know what the hell I will want," I said. "I mean, I could end up wanting something completely different. I just don't want to commit yet."
Foregoing the obvious metaphors at this point in our relationship may have kept the peace, but Marcie was not one for offering such spurious and insincere comforts.
The solution slithered over me like a Zen snake. I leveled my gaze serenely at her and smiled. "I know what I want," I said.
"Well!" she said, raiding her hands and looking up at the ceiling. "It's a miracle! Frank made a decision."
I nodded slowly and smiled, whispering, "I want one of those Baskin-Robbins cakes you told me about," I said.
She looked crestfallen and I immediately regretted the idea, but pushed that sentiment back, as I did not really want an ice cream cake.
"Oh, the one I told you I thought I might like to try?" she asked, nodding. "Well, you know I can't make you one of those."
"I want you to relax and celebrate, too," I said, taking her hand and kissing her forehead. "But if I change my mind, I will tell you. This way, we are both covered."
She was disappointed, but she smiled and looked up hopefully. My deception was complete, but more importantly, I had learned to balance her need for forethought with mine for spontaneity, a lesson I would draw on for 14 years more.
In that moment, I just knew she was mollified yet still psyched at the possibility of baking for me. But the choice to throw out a red herring was made in a storm of memories.
The choice was only just so clear to me, and overshadowed indeed. It was overwrought, more likely, but I gladly indulged in my throes of memory. But I knew that mollification was no substitute for her simple pleasure at making me happy.
"Thank you for helping me look forward to my birthday again, honey," I said, slipping my hands under hers and onto her hips, leaning down and looking into her beautiful blue eyes. "I love you."
She bit her lower lip, and I knew she wanted to protest, but she was too pleased at the appreciation and the gratitude. It was a simple tithe I paid her, but one dear to her.
"Oh, honey," she said. "If all it takes is an ice cream cake to make you happy, then I can go buy you one right now."
She didn't. But we understood each other better, and there was much to be learned before that first birthday together happened.
The third element created a quandary for me. Marcie was a person who knew immediately what she most wanted within any genre of selection proffered. Cake? Why, chocolate, of course, with chocolate butter-cream frosting.
For me, there were factors and moods and potential changes of mind to consider. I honestly didn't try to drive her insane. I was just quite a natural at it.
"Honey, it's a simple question," she said, dropping her hands to her sides, one with the pen and the other with her "special list for baking" pad. She leaned forward and rolled her eyes up as I responded.
"Well, it's liek two weeks away and I don't know what the hell I will want," I said. "I mean, I could end up wanting something completely different. I just don't want to commit yet."
Foregoing the obvious metaphors at this point in our relationship may have kept the peace, but Marcie was not one for offering such spurious and insincere comforts.
The solution slithered over me like a Zen snake. I leveled my gaze serenely at her and smiled. "I know what I want," I said.
"Well!" she said, raiding her hands and looking up at the ceiling. "It's a miracle! Frank made a decision."
I nodded slowly and smiled, whispering, "I want one of those Baskin-Robbins cakes you told me about," I said.
She looked crestfallen and I immediately regretted the idea, but pushed that sentiment back, as I did not really want an ice cream cake.
"Oh, the one I told you I thought I might like to try?" she asked, nodding. "Well, you know I can't make you one of those."
"I want you to relax and celebrate, too," I said, taking her hand and kissing her forehead. "But if I change my mind, I will tell you. This way, we are both covered."
She was disappointed, but she smiled and looked up hopefully. My deception was complete, but more importantly, I had learned to balance her need for forethought with mine for spontaneity, a lesson I would draw on for 14 years more.
In that moment, I just knew she was mollified yet still psyched at the possibility of baking for me. But the choice to throw out a red herring was made in a storm of memories.
The choice was only just so clear to me, and overshadowed indeed. It was overwrought, more likely, but I gladly indulged in my throes of memory. But I knew that mollification was no substitute for her simple pleasure at making me happy.
"Thank you for helping me look forward to my birthday again, honey," I said, slipping my hands under hers and onto her hips, leaning down and looking into her beautiful blue eyes. "I love you."
She bit her lower lip, and I knew she wanted to protest, but she was too pleased at the appreciation and the gratitude. It was a simple tithe I paid her, but one dear to her.
"Oh, honey," she said. "If all it takes is an ice cream cake to make you happy, then I can go buy you one right now."
She didn't. But we understood each other better, and there was much to be learned before that first birthday together happened.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 4)
I had a long walk home. I stepped on a sharp pebble, stubbed my big toe on an uneven piece of sidewalk and realized, in that very moment, that my Champion shorts were actually my Champion boxers.
I got home without being seen by anyone I knew. I remember wondering where she had gone, at first. My thoughts eventually shifted to the whole argument itself.
I understood her being upset. She was something to celebrate. But why on my birthday? For years, birthdays had been just days in my life. At home, birthdays were a visit to Grandma's for a cake.
But birthdays were also a privilege that could be taken away, a bargaining piece for an aunt who knew that the less joy in a life, the more precious the joy was. A simple act to remove it could coerce a lot, and coerce she did.
Foster care was no birthday destination, but I had observed my 16th there. Ny 17th was spent in juvenile hall under false charges that were later dismissed. The military ate my 18th and 19th birthdays. I had no real memory of either except having to stand a watch on both. One was in DEP, one aboard.
Others featured poverty, even homelessness on the 23rd birthday. My 22nd was spent on the road, wandering the highways fairly friendless, wondering how many more I might see before I found a place to be.
I took a long stroll down memory lane before I decided I had remembered enough of the bad
I decided that, despite my issues with progress and personal misgivings, I would try to sincerely celebrate with Marcie. I cleaned up the remains of breakfast and put away the dishes, noticing the late afternoon hour.
I showered and heard the door open and close, then latch. I did not call out and she did not come into the bathroom, so I dried off and tried to engineer a way to broach the subject, bridge the gap, heal the wound and move on.
I walked out to see her without a plan, having just dressed quickly as she unloaded things into the cabinets.
Honey?" I asked.
"What, Frank?" she asked. "Are you waiting for your meal."
"I am glad you are home," I said.
I closed the distance between us and let her try, half-hearted, to push my hands away until she stopped and turned into my chest and hugged me. The words came to me.
"I want to celebrate with you," I said.
"You do?" she asked, croaking, rasping. I still remember the hot tears soaking through my t-shirt where she pressed into my chest.
"I am so sorry," I said. "I was so stuck on the past that I didn't think of how much better my life is with you, because of you. I do want to celebrate, okay?"
She nodded and stroked my back as she whispered."I'm sorry I stormed out of here," she said. "But you looked cute following me down the street in your underwear."
The birthday was yet to come, and it would come with a very special gift and a little fuller discussion of the issues at hand.
I got home without being seen by anyone I knew. I remember wondering where she had gone, at first. My thoughts eventually shifted to the whole argument itself.
I understood her being upset. She was something to celebrate. But why on my birthday? For years, birthdays had been just days in my life. At home, birthdays were a visit to Grandma's for a cake.
But birthdays were also a privilege that could be taken away, a bargaining piece for an aunt who knew that the less joy in a life, the more precious the joy was. A simple act to remove it could coerce a lot, and coerce she did.
Foster care was no birthday destination, but I had observed my 16th there. Ny 17th was spent in juvenile hall under false charges that were later dismissed. The military ate my 18th and 19th birthdays. I had no real memory of either except having to stand a watch on both. One was in DEP, one aboard.
Others featured poverty, even homelessness on the 23rd birthday. My 22nd was spent on the road, wandering the highways fairly friendless, wondering how many more I might see before I found a place to be.
I took a long stroll down memory lane before I decided I had remembered enough of the bad
I decided that, despite my issues with progress and personal misgivings, I would try to sincerely celebrate with Marcie. I cleaned up the remains of breakfast and put away the dishes, noticing the late afternoon hour.
I showered and heard the door open and close, then latch. I did not call out and she did not come into the bathroom, so I dried off and tried to engineer a way to broach the subject, bridge the gap, heal the wound and move on.
I walked out to see her without a plan, having just dressed quickly as she unloaded things into the cabinets.
Honey?" I asked.
"What, Frank?" she asked. "Are you waiting for your meal."
"I am glad you are home," I said.
I closed the distance between us and let her try, half-hearted, to push my hands away until she stopped and turned into my chest and hugged me. The words came to me.
"I want to celebrate with you," I said.
"You do?" she asked, croaking, rasping. I still remember the hot tears soaking through my t-shirt where she pressed into my chest.
"I am so sorry," I said. "I was so stuck on the past that I didn't think of how much better my life is with you, because of you. I do want to celebrate, okay?"
She nodded and stroked my back as she whispered."I'm sorry I stormed out of here," she said. "But you looked cute following me down the street in your underwear."
The birthday was yet to come, and it would come with a very special gift and a little fuller discussion of the issues at hand.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 3)
It was a week later that Marcie, having sulked and for a day or two before resuming our normal relations, began to prod again. It started from the side, so to speak.
"Frank, what do you want for breakfast?" she asked, not looking at me, but rather standing in the kitchen entrance staring straight at the wall, lips tight.
"Just eggs and potatoes," I said. "Thank you."
"Yeeeap," she said, banging the pan on the stove and starting the gas burner. Cupboards opened and closed with force. Utensils rattled and I stopped reading my Logic textbook.
"Honey?" I asked.
"What?" she shot back, tersely, annoyed.
"You don't have to make me breakfast, you know," I said.
"FRANK! Would you just leave me alone and let me cook?" she spat, looking out from the kitchen, her eyes dark with anger.
"Well, you seem upset, so maybe you should just relax and we can go get some cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob or something," I said. "It's okay."
"You don't want me to cook for you and you don't want me to bake for you or celebrate your birthday," she said. "Of course I am upset! I feel like I am a live-in for a self-pitying jerk who just needs a roommate and a sure thing."
Humor was probably not the direction I should have gone in. But life without mistakes is like being asleep without dreams.
"Well, you make a solid point," I said. "But you shouldn't discount the cooking and housecleaning, those really help, too."
Raw potatoes cut into wedges did not hurt. However, she was not amused in the slightest.
"Fine," she said, picking up the potatoes as she spoke. "Fine. You like sleeping with me and kissing me and being fed by me and having a clean house. But you won't let me celebrate your birthday?"
"Honey," I said, trying to give her a hug. "I was just kidding, you know that."
She wriggled away and stood back, arms folded under her breasts, left foot forward as she nodded. "So we'll celebrate your birthday or we wont?"
"I stopped approaching and looked her in the eye, silent and defiant. I waited.
She moved her head as if to say, "Oh, really?" and her lips parted, her mouth hanged open a bit before she bit her lower lip and spoke.
"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What's wrong with you?"
I told her one part of the truth. It wouldn't help.
"I haven't celebrated it since I was in foster care, except my 21st," I said. "I just never had anyone remember it after that."
"So I want to remember it," she said. "What's wrong with that? I love to bake, I love you. I want to bake you something special, I want to do things for you on your birthday and I want you to enjoy yourself."
She let me hug her and buried her head in my chest. "I am sorry for throwing potatoes at you, but you can be such an ass."
I nodded and sighed. Deciding to let her in on more of my thoughts and issues was a good idea, but my delivery proved disastrous and my timing perfectly inappropriate.
"I appreciate that you want to celebrate with me, Marcie. I just don't think I have much to celebrate or be proud of this year," I said.
Of course I know now that this struck right at her heart. I realized it as soon as she pushed away from me and said her piece.
"Really?" she asked. "You just think this whole year has been a complete waste? I'm sorry, I had no idea."
She covered her eyes and leaned down, taking her purse and sweater and crying, pushing my hand away as I tried to console her. "You are such a jerk, Frank," she sobbed. "Thanks for making me feel like chopped liver, I needed that!"
And the door slammed. I followed her and pleaded with her to come home all the way to the bus stop in my bare feet.
"I'll be back when I feel like it," she said. "Celebrate that."
The driver stopped me from getting on. "Sir, you have to wear shoes on the bus."
The door closed and the 1 rolled away. She didn't look back.
"Frank, what do you want for breakfast?" she asked, not looking at me, but rather standing in the kitchen entrance staring straight at the wall, lips tight.
"Just eggs and potatoes," I said. "Thank you."
"Yeeeap," she said, banging the pan on the stove and starting the gas burner. Cupboards opened and closed with force. Utensils rattled and I stopped reading my Logic textbook.
"Honey?" I asked.
"What?" she shot back, tersely, annoyed.
"You don't have to make me breakfast, you know," I said.
"FRANK! Would you just leave me alone and let me cook?" she spat, looking out from the kitchen, her eyes dark with anger.
"Well, you seem upset, so maybe you should just relax and we can go get some cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob or something," I said. "It's okay."
"You don't want me to cook for you and you don't want me to bake for you or celebrate your birthday," she said. "Of course I am upset! I feel like I am a live-in for a self-pitying jerk who just needs a roommate and a sure thing."
Humor was probably not the direction I should have gone in. But life without mistakes is like being asleep without dreams.
"Well, you make a solid point," I said. "But you shouldn't discount the cooking and housecleaning, those really help, too."
Raw potatoes cut into wedges did not hurt. However, she was not amused in the slightest.
"Fine," she said, picking up the potatoes as she spoke. "Fine. You like sleeping with me and kissing me and being fed by me and having a clean house. But you won't let me celebrate your birthday?"
"Honey," I said, trying to give her a hug. "I was just kidding, you know that."
She wriggled away and stood back, arms folded under her breasts, left foot forward as she nodded. "So we'll celebrate your birthday or we wont?"
"I stopped approaching and looked her in the eye, silent and defiant. I waited.
She moved her head as if to say, "Oh, really?" and her lips parted, her mouth hanged open a bit before she bit her lower lip and spoke.
"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What's wrong with you?"
I told her one part of the truth. It wouldn't help.
"I haven't celebrated it since I was in foster care, except my 21st," I said. "I just never had anyone remember it after that."
"So I want to remember it," she said. "What's wrong with that? I love to bake, I love you. I want to bake you something special, I want to do things for you on your birthday and I want you to enjoy yourself."
She let me hug her and buried her head in my chest. "I am sorry for throwing potatoes at you, but you can be such an ass."
I nodded and sighed. Deciding to let her in on more of my thoughts and issues was a good idea, but my delivery proved disastrous and my timing perfectly inappropriate.
"I appreciate that you want to celebrate with me, Marcie. I just don't think I have much to celebrate or be proud of this year," I said.
Of course I know now that this struck right at her heart. I realized it as soon as she pushed away from me and said her piece.
"Really?" she asked. "You just think this whole year has been a complete waste? I'm sorry, I had no idea."
She covered her eyes and leaned down, taking her purse and sweater and crying, pushing my hand away as I tried to console her. "You are such a jerk, Frank," she sobbed. "Thanks for making me feel like chopped liver, I needed that!"
And the door slammed. I followed her and pleaded with her to come home all the way to the bus stop in my bare feet.
"I'll be back when I feel like it," she said. "Celebrate that."
The driver stopped me from getting on. "Sir, you have to wear shoes on the bus."
The door closed and the 1 rolled away. She didn't look back.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 2)
"I don't remember asking you not to celebrate it," I said. "I just remember not being used to celebrating it, at least, not for a long time, and asking you not to overdo it."
She smiled up at me and released the hug, taking back the chocolate and nibbling a piece as she leaned against the counter and nodded. "Do you remember telling me about your grandma?"
I did at that. Grandma Pruett had prepared me many a cake after my mother left the house. Mostly chocolate and occasionally a marbled fudge cake, it was something she did and derived much joy from.
"She did that for us because my dad couldn't bake," I said. "Yeah, I remember your eyes lighting up."
"Then you just shot me down," she said. "You told me not to bake you a cake, you didn't want to celebrate because you weren't twelve years old anymore."
I nodded. It had been a canard
"Well, honey, I was ashamed at my delay, if you remember," I explained. "I was turning 24 and had just begun college. Most of my friends from high school would have graduated. I felt like I had to catch up."
"You told me that later," she reminded me. "But in the mean time, you just told me no, you did not want a cake, and you did not want to talk about your birthday."
She took another nibble and licked her lips, turning her attention to the cake. "But you changed your mind, didn't you?" she asked.
Or she did, but though it all took me back, I simply hugged her in a snuzzle and murmured an "mmhmm."
It had been a good year. I would start my first term as an Associated Students Senator in the fall, had scored all A's and was hired to tutor over the summer and as an instructional aide in the Chicano Studies Department. But I was not happy.
I had chopped my income, having severed ties with my business partner and slowly backed away from club and rave promotions to keep peace with Marcie. My writing was being published, but the pay was low.
I kept returning to the sense that I had fallen behind. It permeated my consciousness. No achievement was untinged by it. No failing escaped magnification by it. I kept it to myself, but it was slowly eating me.
Marcie had been very happy one May morning. She served me some fried eggs (hard yolks, no run and lots of pepper, just how I liked them). She sat across and watched me eat, her hands and forearms on the table as she grinned.
I looked up and stopped chewing. I swallowed. "What? You look very mischievous..."
Her eyes went even wider and she bit her lower lip before it all came out at once. "Guesswhatscomingupsoon!" she demanded, her hand sliding over and grabbing my fork forearm.
"Is it a concert?" I asked. The guessing game had begun, a favorite of ours.
"Noooo," she said, smiling. "It's more personal."
"Is it... a vacation?" I asked.
"Nooo," she said, shaking her head. "Not until I have been at the job for a year, at least."
Is iiiit your parents' anniversay?" I asked, knowing our own was well off into September.
She began to look exasperated and shook her head. "Nooo, honey," she admonished. "It's about you!" She shook my forearm and bit her lips, sitting straighter in her chair, sure I would guess it this time.
My heart sank and the egg swelled in my throat to ten times its size as I did guess what she meant. I whispered, "My birthday?"
Her eyes popped wide open and she bit her lip before she excitedly squeaked, "Yes! Oh, I can't wait to bake you a cake! We are going to have a great time and celebrate the end of the 24th complete year of Frank."
I nodded and scraped at my plate. "I don't want to celebrate my birthday this year, honey," I said. "I would just rather let it go by like it has for the last few, okay?"
She was silent. I looked up in her eyes and she was pouting and frowning. She was mad that I had spoiled her fun, but she was also concerned. "Frank, why not?" she asked. "Is there something wrong?"
"Well, I just don't want to make a big deal out of it," I said. "I am not a twelve-year-old. I don't have to have the world revolve around me for a day, really."
She withdrew her hand. "What if I want to celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What if it's important to me?"
I was suddenly very tired of the conversation. I looked up and simply said, "Marcie, please don't make an issue out of this, I just don't really celebrate my birthday and I haven't for a long, long time."
She looked utterly hurt and bit her upper lip, sucking it in a bit. She stood abruptly and grabbed her purse. "Fine, Frank," she said. "You know, you need to get over whatever it is that makes you such a grump. It's not attractive, you know."
She slammed the door after snatching the grocery list. I was bewildered at her insistence, but momentarily glad she had dropped it, no matter how riled she was.
But I was wrong, and not only about the argument, or for not being open with her, but in that she had not even begun to argue... not by a long shot.
It is a fight I am still grateful she picked.
She smiled up at me and released the hug, taking back the chocolate and nibbling a piece as she leaned against the counter and nodded. "Do you remember telling me about your grandma?"
I did at that. Grandma Pruett had prepared me many a cake after my mother left the house. Mostly chocolate and occasionally a marbled fudge cake, it was something she did and derived much joy from.
"She did that for us because my dad couldn't bake," I said. "Yeah, I remember your eyes lighting up."
"Then you just shot me down," she said. "You told me not to bake you a cake, you didn't want to celebrate because you weren't twelve years old anymore."
I nodded. It had been a canard
"Well, honey, I was ashamed at my delay, if you remember," I explained. "I was turning 24 and had just begun college. Most of my friends from high school would have graduated. I felt like I had to catch up."
"You told me that later," she reminded me. "But in the mean time, you just told me no, you did not want a cake, and you did not want to talk about your birthday."
She took another nibble and licked her lips, turning her attention to the cake. "But you changed your mind, didn't you?" she asked.
Or she did, but though it all took me back, I simply hugged her in a snuzzle and murmured an "mmhmm."
It had been a good year. I would start my first term as an Associated Students Senator in the fall, had scored all A's and was hired to tutor over the summer and as an instructional aide in the Chicano Studies Department. But I was not happy.
I had chopped my income, having severed ties with my business partner and slowly backed away from club and rave promotions to keep peace with Marcie. My writing was being published, but the pay was low.
I kept returning to the sense that I had fallen behind. It permeated my consciousness. No achievement was untinged by it. No failing escaped magnification by it. I kept it to myself, but it was slowly eating me.
Marcie had been very happy one May morning. She served me some fried eggs (hard yolks, no run and lots of pepper, just how I liked them). She sat across and watched me eat, her hands and forearms on the table as she grinned.
I looked up and stopped chewing. I swallowed. "What? You look very mischievous..."
Her eyes went even wider and she bit her lower lip before it all came out at once. "Guesswhatscomingupsoon!" she demanded, her hand sliding over and grabbing my fork forearm.
"Is it a concert?" I asked. The guessing game had begun, a favorite of ours.
"Noooo," she said, smiling. "It's more personal."
"Is it... a vacation?" I asked.
"Nooo," she said, shaking her head. "Not until I have been at the job for a year, at least."
Is iiiit your parents' anniversay?" I asked, knowing our own was well off into September.
She began to look exasperated and shook her head. "Nooo, honey," she admonished. "It's about you!" She shook my forearm and bit her lips, sitting straighter in her chair, sure I would guess it this time.
My heart sank and the egg swelled in my throat to ten times its size as I did guess what she meant. I whispered, "My birthday?"
Her eyes popped wide open and she bit her lip before she excitedly squeaked, "Yes! Oh, I can't wait to bake you a cake! We are going to have a great time and celebrate the end of the 24th complete year of Frank."
I nodded and scraped at my plate. "I don't want to celebrate my birthday this year, honey," I said. "I would just rather let it go by like it has for the last few, okay?"
She was silent. I looked up in her eyes and she was pouting and frowning. She was mad that I had spoiled her fun, but she was also concerned. "Frank, why not?" she asked. "Is there something wrong?"
"Well, I just don't want to make a big deal out of it," I said. "I am not a twelve-year-old. I don't have to have the world revolve around me for a day, really."
She withdrew her hand. "What if I want to celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What if it's important to me?"
I was suddenly very tired of the conversation. I looked up and simply said, "Marcie, please don't make an issue out of this, I just don't really celebrate my birthday and I haven't for a long, long time."
She looked utterly hurt and bit her upper lip, sucking it in a bit. She stood abruptly and grabbed her purse. "Fine, Frank," she said. "You know, you need to get over whatever it is that makes you such a grump. It's not attractive, you know."
She slammed the door after snatching the grocery list. I was bewildered at her insistence, but momentarily glad she had dropped it, no matter how riled she was.
But I was wrong, and not only about the argument, or for not being open with her, but in that she had not even begun to argue... not by a long shot.
It is a fight I am still grateful she picked.
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.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Taking the time to do it all
Well, folks, it looks like I will finally be catching up on all of my "to do" stuff this week. As of Friday, I am taking a week of leave from work. It has to be done. Some plans I have for the week include:
Wish me luck, and watch for the new store and other efforts. If everything goes well, who knows? Maybe I'll have time for a road trip. Maybe Humboldt this time...
Thanks for reading on. I know I owe all of you a wedding video, but it looks terrible and scratchy, so I am going to try to transfer it all over again this weekend. I do have a poem for tomorrow... and news later tonight.
Much love,
F.
- Start the online store and pack it with Marcie's and my things
- Begin selling off the household goods and the appliances
- Start building a memory box for Marcie so I can store what is meaningful enough to keep
- Rebuild a wardrobe, since everything is just too big now
- Tend to my financial health (tax appointment Saturday, portfolio adjustments)
- Start gathering consular information on the international transportation of ashen remains
- Crank out a few dozen résumés and cover letters for good-sounding jobs
- Reconnect with Marcie's family and get them over or take them out for a dinner
Wish me luck, and watch for the new store and other efforts. If everything goes well, who knows? Maybe I'll have time for a road trip. Maybe Humboldt this time...
Thanks for reading on. I know I owe all of you a wedding video, but it looks terrible and scratchy, so I am going to try to transfer it all over again this weekend. I do have a poem for tomorrow... and news later tonight.
Much love,
F.
Friday, February 8, 2008
To my wonderfully supportive coworker
To my generous and kind coworker,
You have not told me your name, and I understand that. Whatever it is and whoever you are, I wanted to thank you with a special post.
You have sent me cards and posted comments, and now you have sent flowers. I am deeply touched. I received it today, and I thank you for your prayers and thoughts as well as the wonderful tulips. Marcie would have loved them.
So that you know, since I cannot tell you in person, it has been difficult, but the burden has been lightened by the people who surround me at work and in my personal life, all of whom have been very good to me and extremely supportive. That means you, too, of course. I am floored by your patronage and thoughtfulness.
I will have the tulips on my desk at work, as they seem ill-suited to my porch, but I had to bring them home and put them among my little arrangement of plants. Here they are, comfy and surrounded but highlighted, not obscured, by their duller peers:
And here they are in a closeup for the rest of you:
Thank you to all of my coworkers, friends, family and readers. You have all been wonderful and I hope that I can return that in some small way through this and other endeavors I intend to share with you all.
Good night,
F.
You have not told me your name, and I understand that. Whatever it is and whoever you are, I wanted to thank you with a special post.
You have sent me cards and posted comments, and now you have sent flowers. I am deeply touched. I received it today, and I thank you for your prayers and thoughts as well as the wonderful tulips. Marcie would have loved them.
So that you know, since I cannot tell you in person, it has been difficult, but the burden has been lightened by the people who surround me at work and in my personal life, all of whom have been very good to me and extremely supportive. That means you, too, of course. I am floored by your patronage and thoughtfulness.
I will have the tulips on my desk at work, as they seem ill-suited to my porch, but I had to bring them home and put them among my little arrangement of plants. Here they are, comfy and surrounded but highlighted, not obscured, by their duller peers:
And here they are in a closeup for the rest of you:
Thank you to all of my coworkers, friends, family and readers. You have all been wonderful and I hope that I can return that in some small way through this and other endeavors I intend to share with you all.
Good night,
F.