He didn't show up for work. He didn't call. Not the job, not his girlfriend, not his friends, not his mother. Silence. They worried. They called each other, wondering aloud, Where is he? His wallet was at home, inside his wallet his ID. Important, that. He does not drive a car. He rides his bicycle. Or he uses Metro. Or he walks.
My niece cried to me, I just keep picturing him hurt in a ditch somewhere.
Inside the critical care unit in a hospital in the medical center, a young man in a coma. A broken arm, a broken leg, a tracheotomy fit to a respirator, a feeding tube in his nose, half his head shaved for draining fluid from his swollen his brain. For five days, his name unknown. Five days of John Doe.
Five long and anguish-filled days. His mother called the police, and every single hospital in Houston. More than once. She filed a missing persons report after the mandatory wait time.
A witness to the hit and run called an ambulance and the police. The police connected the dots after the missing person report was filed. The phone call to his mother serving up a potent cocktail of relief and terror.
The details are unknown, beyond what the witness saw. Type of car known, license plate not known. Somewhere, someone walks beneath a heavy load of guilt. And fear. A nauseating and dark mixture to carry through life.
Inside the CCU, respirator bellows rhythmically rise and fall with a lonely whoosh sound. His mother sits beside him. Monitor lights of green reflecting on her face as she gazes at her son, hands wrung in worry and prayer. The only relief is that he has been found.
And again he has his name.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Thursday, February 01, 2007
A note to the second month
Dear February,
Back again so soon?
I've expected your return, of course, even kept my eye on your inevitable progressing to the present. Still, it's hard to believe you are already here again, cloaked as you are in your grey and rainy indifference. As the calendar page turned, I've braced myself for you. I'm wearing my boots today, no coincidence. It's how I see you, how I feel I need to be prepared for you. Armed, if you will, to see you. You, the Judas of the months, the betrayer of my heart. You are a painful reminder of what I already know, a sad bridge I must cross over to get from January to March. I ask only one thing of you: Be mercifully swift in your passing days.
Give me that much.
Back again so soon?
I've expected your return, of course, even kept my eye on your inevitable progressing to the present. Still, it's hard to believe you are already here again, cloaked as you are in your grey and rainy indifference. As the calendar page turned, I've braced myself for you. I'm wearing my boots today, no coincidence. It's how I see you, how I feel I need to be prepared for you. Armed, if you will, to see you. You, the Judas of the months, the betrayer of my heart. You are a painful reminder of what I already know, a sad bridge I must cross over to get from January to March. I ask only one thing of you: Be mercifully swift in your passing days.
Give me that much.
Monday, January 29, 2007
May his big heart rest in peace
When I walked onto the grounds of Churchill Downs two years ago, the first thing that struck me were the names. The name of every winning horse in the history of the Kentucky Derby is engraved along the top of the walls that encircle the paddock area. One hundered and thirty names. Winners, all. I remember standing beneath them in awe, feeling the thunder of hooves run through me, sensing their majesty, thinking that these names are on the greatest list of champions.Photo API
I was in Sardi's in New York with my mother and a friend watching the Kentucky Derby last year when Barbaro sped to his place among those champions. The crowd gathered around the televisions in the bar went insane during that race, voices raised, joy screamed, strangers' arms grabbed in anticipation . Mom turned to me excitedly and said, What a horse!
Indeed.
Two weeks later I watched the horrific moment when Barbaro's life forever changed, the moment that ultimately was the beginning of his end. As his jockey heartbreakingly struggled to bring him under control, I recalled in 1975 the same scene unfolding as I watched Ruffian fall to Foolish Pleasure. Not since then, have we so publicly seen such an instance of horror in horse racing. One searing moment of dread and dismay. Shock and knowing creeping in. These gentle giants cannot withstand such an injury.
And yet for a time Barbaro seemed to defy that. Over the past eight months, I've followed his recovery, rocking back and forth with his progress and setbacks. In the end, those who loved him most did what was merciful.
Mercy aside, in the end it's not the horse who did this to the horse. It is us. Last summer alone, in Chicago's Arlington Park, 17 horses suffered fatal accidents. Between 2003 and 2005, on racetracks in California, there were more than 240 fatalities. Two hundred and forty. There are myriad reasons, too little time between races, too pushed for qualifying times, too much drive and expectation. Too pushed for fame, too pushed for the purse. These horses, mighty as they may be, stand on fragile legs. Laminitis stalks a leg injury as opportunistically as cancer a cell.
May the racing world be reminded yet again the need for changes to a flawed and greedy system. Let the burden of this tragedy rest heavily upon the shoulders of those who have the power to change the system, and let it raise their minds and actions to those changes.
Barbaro's name will forever stand at Churchill Downs, etched in history among the giants who preceded him. Like them, he had a heart for racing and a body built for the wind to chase. May that giant's heart now rest. Painlessly. Peacefully.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Brush with greatness
To say that I am fanatic about all things Fleetwood Mac would be a mild statement. I have no idea how many of their concerts I've been to through the years, but it's well over 30. Come to think of it, I have no idea how many album to tape to CD purchases I've made through those same years but I'm sure if I'd invested that money elsewhere I could retire very soon. Suffice to say that since Rumours, I've spent countless hours of my life inside the music of that band as well as the solo efforts of its members.
For Christmas, two friends who know me very well and have been dragged to several Mac or Stevie Nicks concerts gave me tickets to see Lindsey Buckingham. This should tell you that I am blessed in the generosity of friends department. It was also their brilliant way of saying that they know I want to see him and they support that but no way in hell will they be joining me for a two-hour guitar solo by Lindsey Buckingham. To them, his solos are when they go to the bathroom or buy a beer or walk the venue in search of Advil and ear plugs. To me, well, come on, he's a Guitar God. Those tickets were a great Christmas present. And the concert was Friday night.
He stood on that stage, a blue light behind him, guitar in hand, and sang his new stuff and his old stuff, and some Mac stuff. And I sang and smiled and tapped my toes the whole time. And before I knew what was happening, it was over. But we knew better - the band loves encores - so we ran up to the front of the stage and stood there like faithful disciples awaiting his return. And when he walked back on that stage and started the first notes of Holiday Road, and we were right there, I could have passed out from musical joy. But then he looked right at me and we locked eyes, and although only for a second or two, it was still eye-to eye, and then I really could have passed out. I mean, to lock eyes with Lindsey Buckingham while he's playing his guitar is to connect with a legend.
On Saturday when I called my friend to gush and thank her for the gift, I told her how close I was to him and how we locked eyes and how, well, COOL, that was. Through the phone I could hear her rolling her eyes. She said, Of course he locked eyes with you. He recognized you as the blond stalker who followed them to six shows last year. I'm surprised he didn't point you out to his security team.
Ahem. All I have to say to that is I have never gone to Tulsa to see Captain & Tennille.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Gotcha!
The house? Not mine.
The dog food? Not hers.
The behavior? Typical.
I don't remember what my neighbor Mary and I were chatting about, standing in her front yard. Cheyenne was off leash and, while we were talking, disappeared. Then it was all, Where did Cheyenne go? And we set off in different directions to find her. I walked around the side of the house. Mary went inside the house. She found Cheyenne, grabbed a disposable camera off her desk, then raised her voice a notch or two, Cheyenne!
Oh so busted.
The dog peering through the back door with, What the? on his face is Bear, the dog whose food bag Cheyenne is wearing.
The dog food? Not hers.
The behavior? Typical.
I don't remember what my neighbor Mary and I were chatting about, standing in her front yard. Cheyenne was off leash and, while we were talking, disappeared. Then it was all, Where did Cheyenne go? And we set off in different directions to find her. I walked around the side of the house. Mary went inside the house. She found Cheyenne, grabbed a disposable camera off her desk, then raised her voice a notch or two, Cheyenne!
Oh so busted.
The dog peering through the back door with, What the? on his face is Bear, the dog whose food bag Cheyenne is wearing.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Colored shoes in her trunk
After reading Velvet's 300th post last week, I was curious. I checked my own figures and at the time, I had posted just over 610 times since January 2005 when I started this site. Tonight I spent a couple hours going through those posts. How funny to have archives, I thought. I started out wondering what in the world I had to say all those times I put my fingers on the keys and hit publish, and then I got caught up in a journey with myself, where I've been, what I've thought, what I felt, where I've laughed and when I've cried. Where I've been and where I'm going.
In a way, it was like catching up with an old friend. But there's no overall theme to this particular friendship, no high school or college connection, no binding moment or shared connection. There is no central plot here. I realize that I cannot categorize this site beyond my journal. And that's okay, it just makes it unclassifiable, like when you're left no choice but to check Other in the answer box of a survey response, or perhaps looking in the odd bins. Or even maybe writing etc., when your words fail.
So be it. This is other.
What I've posted about most often is my father. I had just under 25 posts when I lost him. For those 25, he loved that I was doing this, enjoyed reading my words. But then his life and, naturally, this site became something else, something other. Death and loss seeped into my heart, my life and my words. IWSI became the journal of a grieving daughter. And it's still saturated with that, as am I. I'm always keeping my eye out for the white feather.
For the past year, my mother has figured heavily into my writing. Her strokes, her unraveling, the long nights, the many hospitals, the communication and the sadness. The realization of the horizon. The love and heartbreak of my journey as a daughter mothering her mother.
Always throughout there has been the little brown dog Cheyenne, and nature observed, hope realized, travels chronicled. Friends. Pictures. This spot has been a place for the daughter, friend, griever, mourner, photographer. A place for the woman who shares her observations through words and photographs. In an odd way, it's been a place to hide. In plain site, but still. It's been a place for me to express myself as desperate, fortified, hopeful, hopeless, prayerful, loving, knowing, positive, negative, angry and, yes of course, happy.
And it's been a portal through which I've discovered friends, some briefly connected and others landed. Honestly, I've been given some true gifts through the landings. In particular, Ghost and Just Golden, and NG and Sass. I've been through hurricanes and birthdays with them, first dates, anniversaries, newborn sons, new puppies, and new ventures. Which reminds me of Velvet, a delightful story and history discovered on my internet doorstep, one that I'm still savoring as my own but will share in due time. For different reasons and at different times, they've each made me feel welcome and understood, and allowed me to offer it in return.
The title of this post? That's from a conversation I had with Mom tonight. She's somewhere else in her mind at the moment, somewhere where she needs to tell me that there is a pair of colored shoes - size 4 or 8, she can't recall - in the trunk of her car, and she wants me to have them because she got them for me. I smile at her, tell her I'll be sure to get them. And I thank her.
I don't have to go to her car, I know there's nothing there. It all makes as much sense as anything else I've experienced and expressed here. Happy, blue, hopeful, colorful. Life. All of the above, and Other.
In a way, it was like catching up with an old friend. But there's no overall theme to this particular friendship, no high school or college connection, no binding moment or shared connection. There is no central plot here. I realize that I cannot categorize this site beyond my journal. And that's okay, it just makes it unclassifiable, like when you're left no choice but to check Other in the answer box of a survey response, or perhaps looking in the odd bins. Or even maybe writing etc., when your words fail.
So be it. This is other.
What I've posted about most often is my father. I had just under 25 posts when I lost him. For those 25, he loved that I was doing this, enjoyed reading my words. But then his life and, naturally, this site became something else, something other. Death and loss seeped into my heart, my life and my words. IWSI became the journal of a grieving daughter. And it's still saturated with that, as am I. I'm always keeping my eye out for the white feather.
For the past year, my mother has figured heavily into my writing. Her strokes, her unraveling, the long nights, the many hospitals, the communication and the sadness. The realization of the horizon. The love and heartbreak of my journey as a daughter mothering her mother.
Always throughout there has been the little brown dog Cheyenne, and nature observed, hope realized, travels chronicled. Friends. Pictures. This spot has been a place for the daughter, friend, griever, mourner, photographer. A place for the woman who shares her observations through words and photographs. In an odd way, it's been a place to hide. In plain site, but still. It's been a place for me to express myself as desperate, fortified, hopeful, hopeless, prayerful, loving, knowing, positive, negative, angry and, yes of course, happy.
And it's been a portal through which I've discovered friends, some briefly connected and others landed. Honestly, I've been given some true gifts through the landings. In particular, Ghost and Just Golden, and NG and Sass. I've been through hurricanes and birthdays with them, first dates, anniversaries, newborn sons, new puppies, and new ventures. Which reminds me of Velvet, a delightful story and history discovered on my internet doorstep, one that I'm still savoring as my own but will share in due time. For different reasons and at different times, they've each made me feel welcome and understood, and allowed me to offer it in return.
The title of this post? That's from a conversation I had with Mom tonight. She's somewhere else in her mind at the moment, somewhere where she needs to tell me that there is a pair of colored shoes - size 4 or 8, she can't recall - in the trunk of her car, and she wants me to have them because she got them for me. I smile at her, tell her I'll be sure to get them. And I thank her.
I don't have to go to her car, I know there's nothing there. It all makes as much sense as anything else I've experienced and expressed here. Happy, blue, hopeful, colorful. Life. All of the above, and Other.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Because I must have been dropped on my head when I was a baby
On Saturday morning, bright and early, I had a manicure and pedicure. That's a sweet way to start my weekend, waking up, putting on comfy sweats, walking the dog, getting a cup of coffee and then driving two minutes to the nail salon to have my nails done.
As I was sitting in the chair, I could not get the Smith & Hawkcen catalog out of my head, the one I looked through before going to bed Friday night. The catalog featured terrariums, and I realized that I could not possibly live in my house a minute longer without at least one terrarium.
Until I got to the store and saw the terrarium containers. Ornate designs, elegant and sleek and a bit delicate looking. Not something that would fit in my house which, when I look around, I realize I apparently prefer to resemble the comfy interior of a barn. A terrarium of the Smith & Hawken variety would be as out of place in my living room as a Tiffany necklace on a horse. But they had bulbs and old looking pots that were packaged together with all the dirt you needed, on sale from $38.99 to a mere $8.00. Terrarium schmerium, what I needed was Paper Whites in and a rustic looking pot. And I bought a couple extra bulbs for a couple other sufficiently worn looking pots. And the ever-important moss, so you're not just looking at dirt in a pot on your counter while you're waiting for your Paper Whites to sprout skyward.
There's something wonderful about putting your hands in good soil, about planting and watering, something so warm and soothing and life-affirming that I could not leave well enough alone with planting the three pots with dirt and bulbs and moss. Nope, I had to step onto my teeny tiny back porch, all covered with soggy felled leaves and hopelessly dead plants in window boxes and iron baskets and big terra cotta planters. An hour and a half later, dead plants had been removed, dead leaves raked and bagged, and stale dirt turned for aeration. I felt good.
And then I gazed at the neighbor's bougainvillea that had creeped over and along my side of the fence. It was a beast with menacing thorns that could take my eye out, a mass of branches so thick I could stand beneath it in the pouring rain and not feel a drop. And I thought, Why not tackle that as well? The answer should have been, Because you got a manicure this morning, but instead was, Well, you're out here anyway. No small undertaking, this involved two types of pruning sheers and a ladder. When that was finally over, still not able to leave well enough alone, I cut back the Confederate Jasmine that was threatening to take over all other living things within five feet of the fence.
And then, just for fun, I pulled weeds.
The teeny tiny back porch, the walkway, the fence and the yard are well-groomed and clean once again. Sadly, the same can no longer be said for my fingernails. Ugh, my fingernails. That manicure that I had recieved six hours earlier? I look down at my hands and see that my nails actually looked better Friday when I looked at them in horror and picked up the phone to make Saturday morning's appointment.
I blame all of this on Smith & Hawken and their damn Terrarium catalog.
As I was sitting in the chair, I could not get the Smith & Hawkcen catalog out of my head, the one I looked through before going to bed Friday night. The catalog featured terrariums, and I realized that I could not possibly live in my house a minute longer without at least one terrarium.
Until I got to the store and saw the terrarium containers. Ornate designs, elegant and sleek and a bit delicate looking. Not something that would fit in my house which, when I look around, I realize I apparently prefer to resemble the comfy interior of a barn. A terrarium of the Smith & Hawken variety would be as out of place in my living room as a Tiffany necklace on a horse. But they had bulbs and old looking pots that were packaged together with all the dirt you needed, on sale from $38.99 to a mere $8.00. Terrarium schmerium, what I needed was Paper Whites in and a rustic looking pot. And I bought a couple extra bulbs for a couple other sufficiently worn looking pots. And the ever-important moss, so you're not just looking at dirt in a pot on your counter while you're waiting for your Paper Whites to sprout skyward.
There's something wonderful about putting your hands in good soil, about planting and watering, something so warm and soothing and life-affirming that I could not leave well enough alone with planting the three pots with dirt and bulbs and moss. Nope, I had to step onto my teeny tiny back porch, all covered with soggy felled leaves and hopelessly dead plants in window boxes and iron baskets and big terra cotta planters. An hour and a half later, dead plants had been removed, dead leaves raked and bagged, and stale dirt turned for aeration. I felt good.
And then I gazed at the neighbor's bougainvillea that had creeped over and along my side of the fence. It was a beast with menacing thorns that could take my eye out, a mass of branches so thick I could stand beneath it in the pouring rain and not feel a drop. And I thought, Why not tackle that as well? The answer should have been, Because you got a manicure this morning, but instead was, Well, you're out here anyway. No small undertaking, this involved two types of pruning sheers and a ladder. When that was finally over, still not able to leave well enough alone, I cut back the Confederate Jasmine that was threatening to take over all other living things within five feet of the fence.
And then, just for fun, I pulled weeds.
The teeny tiny back porch, the walkway, the fence and the yard are well-groomed and clean once again. Sadly, the same can no longer be said for my fingernails. Ugh, my fingernails. That manicure that I had recieved six hours earlier? I look down at my hands and see that my nails actually looked better Friday when I looked at them in horror and picked up the phone to make Saturday morning's appointment.
I blame all of this on Smith & Hawken and their damn Terrarium catalog.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Lever Lab 2000
We all know her. She's charming and coy and brown. And she's bad, that one, just bad. When I got home from Target and unpacked all the crap that one buys at Target that one never intends to buy - in my case I set out for a single light bulb and added two white t-shirts, a CD, and the ever-important thickening shampoo of a brand I've never heard of before but feel will be the one that has the magic potion to give me hair the volume equal to my hips, the magic bottle that I hold in my hand and feel the promise, or at least the hope, of thick hair - wait, I've gotten way off subject, but you see how I am at Target, and also how hopeless I am in my hair dreams.
Annnnnyway, when I got home from Target, I put the single bulb and all the unnecessary and dreamy purchases on the counter, fed the brown dog, took her for a walk, and went out for dinner (after giving her a treat, mind you).
She was at the door when I got home. And on her face was that look. I walked up the stairs having no idea what I would find but knowing it would be something. She lunged ahead of me, and when I rounded the corner into the living room, she threw herself down on the rug beside her prize of two slightly torn open boxes of soap, and did so in a manner that sighed adolescent first love, a manner that spoke to the boxes as something she created yet still needed to breathe life into and draw from, and I who feeds her and walks her and puts her to bed with down pillows beneath her head, and pretty much wipes her ass if she needs it, I had the NERVE to interrupt her. No more guilty, I'm-so-sorry-I-can't-stand-to-be-alive-please-don't-stop-loving-me look on her face, just a pure and bizarre sort of, well, soap love.
I did what I normally do: I shouted, CHEYENNE, NO!
She looked up at me without a modicum of sorrow on her face but instead an expression that said Hey, I live here and who invited you into my home? I swear to you that if words could come from her mouth, she'd have told me to leave her the hell alone with her soap. Dammit, Mom! GO AWAY. I'm busy here. I need my space.
As if I'd walked in on her masturbating.
Annnnnyway, when I got home from Target, I put the single bulb and all the unnecessary and dreamy purchases on the counter, fed the brown dog, took her for a walk, and went out for dinner (after giving her a treat, mind you).
She was at the door when I got home. And on her face was that look. I walked up the stairs having no idea what I would find but knowing it would be something. She lunged ahead of me, and when I rounded the corner into the living room, she threw herself down on the rug beside her prize of two slightly torn open boxes of soap, and did so in a manner that sighed adolescent first love, a manner that spoke to the boxes as something she created yet still needed to breathe life into and draw from, and I who feeds her and walks her and puts her to bed with down pillows beneath her head, and pretty much wipes her ass if she needs it, I had the NERVE to interrupt her. No more guilty, I'm-so-sorry-I-can't-stand-to-be-alive-please-don't-stop-loving-me look on her face, just a pure and bizarre sort of, well, soap love.
I did what I normally do: I shouted, CHEYENNE, NO!
She looked up at me without a modicum of sorrow on her face but instead an expression that said Hey, I live here and who invited you into my home? I swear to you that if words could come from her mouth, she'd have told me to leave her the hell alone with her soap. Dammit, Mom! GO AWAY. I'm busy here. I need my space.
As if I'd walked in on her masturbating.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Echoing back to silence
Was that you? I felt your voice in my heart tonight. I love it when you call me, but I'm never sure, never really sure.
Am I dreaming? Has our world fallen apart? It seems to have done so without you. I want to tell you how hard it is, how sometimes I want to quit. I want to tell you how much I understand you now. The funny thing though, the dark but funny thing, is that when I put my shoes on, I feel you and I hear you asking for my help and I know that quitting is not possible. And then I realize how much you did and how relieved you were by my help. We took care of our family, together.
I wipe a tear, hang my head. I recognize the moment as your own. At this point, you'd ask me for help. Now I'm asking you, father. I need help.
Father, I'm asking for your wisdom, I'm asking you to tell me. How do I help her and him and her? How do I help them and still work my job and my time and still absorb the love and answer the needs and carry on? How do I fill the shoes you left me to fill, answer what is asked of me? How do I keep your voice? How am I you?
No words.
I miss the shape of your name in my sentences. I miss your watery blue eyes. I miss your gentle hands. I miss your voice and your love and your heart. I miss your face and your presence and your wisdom. I miss your humor and your support and belief. I miss your love and I miss the days before I grieved you. I miss your life, father, I miss your life.
I am rounding a corner, softening sharp edges, breathing dull gashes, returning. To that day. It's you, I feel it.
It's not you. It's a haunting. The calendar, the memory, the loss. The void. I stand up and wait for you to tell me you love me.
You're there, aren't you? I hear you. I feel you.
Father?
Silence.
The earth spins. The seasonal talk of Superbowl Sunday begins. I turn my head, my stomach tightens. Again the reminder of the day, of your leaving. That day again, that square inch on my calendar. It's just a shape. But it's a day and a date. My head falls into my hands. It marks a life lost. Your life lost.
It's coming. Soon you'll have been gone for two years. Two years, father, two. The last words you said to me were I love you Cat. Two years.
I have no idea how I've made it these years without you.
She said it best... In a way that is my own, I begin again.
There's no choice. I walk, I run, I freeze. I worry, I cry, I laugh. I pray. I get out of bed each day and I try, I just try. I take care of her. And her. And him. For you, for me. I do it because I am you, because that is what you gave me, you taught me, you passed on to me. I haven't left you, father, I have not left you or your many lessons. I carry you on. I'm taking care of things for you, I am.
But oh how I miss you. How I do miss you.
I say it out loud.
I miss you.
Silence.
Am I dreaming? Has our world fallen apart? It seems to have done so without you. I want to tell you how hard it is, how sometimes I want to quit. I want to tell you how much I understand you now. The funny thing though, the dark but funny thing, is that when I put my shoes on, I feel you and I hear you asking for my help and I know that quitting is not possible. And then I realize how much you did and how relieved you were by my help. We took care of our family, together.
I wipe a tear, hang my head. I recognize the moment as your own. At this point, you'd ask me for help. Now I'm asking you, father. I need help.
Father, I'm asking for your wisdom, I'm asking you to tell me. How do I help her and him and her? How do I help them and still work my job and my time and still absorb the love and answer the needs and carry on? How do I fill the shoes you left me to fill, answer what is asked of me? How do I keep your voice? How am I you?
No words.
I miss the shape of your name in my sentences. I miss your watery blue eyes. I miss your gentle hands. I miss your voice and your love and your heart. I miss your face and your presence and your wisdom. I miss your humor and your support and belief. I miss your love and I miss the days before I grieved you. I miss your life, father, I miss your life.
I am rounding a corner, softening sharp edges, breathing dull gashes, returning. To that day. It's you, I feel it.
It's not you. It's a haunting. The calendar, the memory, the loss. The void. I stand up and wait for you to tell me you love me.
You're there, aren't you? I hear you. I feel you.
Father?
Silence.
The earth spins. The seasonal talk of Superbowl Sunday begins. I turn my head, my stomach tightens. Again the reminder of the day, of your leaving. That day again, that square inch on my calendar. It's just a shape. But it's a day and a date. My head falls into my hands. It marks a life lost. Your life lost.
It's coming. Soon you'll have been gone for two years. Two years, father, two. The last words you said to me were I love you Cat. Two years.
I have no idea how I've made it these years without you.
She said it best... In a way that is my own, I begin again.
There's no choice. I walk, I run, I freeze. I worry, I cry, I laugh. I pray. I get out of bed each day and I try, I just try. I take care of her. And her. And him. For you, for me. I do it because I am you, because that is what you gave me, you taught me, you passed on to me. I haven't left you, father, I have not left you or your many lessons. I carry you on. I'm taking care of things for you, I am.
But oh how I miss you. How I do miss you.
I say it out loud.
I miss you.
Silence.
Freeze frame
Weathermen. Media. Local news. Oh my, the saliva drooled over the weather. Arctic Blast. The Ice Storm. The weather segment of the news is titled, with the title graphically frozen in ice. It's cold here, true. And there are a few icy patches around our roads, and, yes, driving conditions to the north and west of us are not good or safe. But seriously the news crews are frothing at the mouth with excitement and drama over this. Single case in point: standing on the side of the street, one young reporter smiles and tells us the freeze is coming, having the cameraman zoom in to a 3/4 inch icicle hanging from a stop sign. It's a tad bit on the desperate side.
And on the flip side, if you live in Austin and the roads are iced over in some places two inches thick and all schools are closed and warnings are made to stay off the roads, is it really okay to ignore all that and get on the road anyway just so that you can eat barbecue at the inauguration of our useless Governor? I think that is an unacceptable risk on so many levels.
There has been one bright spot in all this, however. And by bright, I mean amusing. No one I know hates weather like this more than my friend Reading does. I'm still chuckling to myself from yesterday when she asked me what I thought her bosses would say if she called in cold.
And on the flip side, if you live in Austin and the roads are iced over in some places two inches thick and all schools are closed and warnings are made to stay off the roads, is it really okay to ignore all that and get on the road anyway just so that you can eat barbecue at the inauguration of our useless Governor? I think that is an unacceptable risk on so many levels.
There has been one bright spot in all this, however. And by bright, I mean amusing. No one I know hates weather like this more than my friend Reading does. I'm still chuckling to myself from yesterday when she asked me what I thought her bosses would say if she called in cold.
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