She’s Moved On And So Should You

Her crossed arms answered her question before she spoke.

She didn’t have to speak. The look on her face. The trademark crossed arms. Her favored one hip stance. All did the speaking for her.

Disappointment.

“It’s just been such a long week. And I really want to get to the airport,” I tried to explain. Twisting in my chair.

“But what about dinner? You have to eat, ” my grandmother said.

Leaning forward, I tried to justify my actions. “But Anna is so exhausted. I am, too. I’m so sorry. I know we promised but I want to avoid the traffic. We’ll pick up something quick on the way.”

Silence.

“Do you think you’ll be back for Thanksgiving?” she asked, eyebrows raised. Hopeful.

“I’m not sure,” I said, letting my voice trail off. I knew I wouldn’t. Maybe Christmas. Maybe next spring. But I was tired of the 1200 mile journeys. I wanted a break.

“It’s OK,” my sister chimed in, “I’ll bring the kids by next week and we can have lunch.” Trying to come to my rescue. It’s little consolation. I’m the one who lives so far away.

Then we said our goodbyes. And watched her on the driveway with her arms crossed. Not smiling, yet trying not to look disappointed.

Twelve years later the image haunts me.

“You have to stop beating yourself up over this,” my sister says to me over the phone.

I shift uncomfortably. I close my eyes. “I know. But I can’t.”

“There was no way you could know she was going to die. No one knew. She was always so vibrant. Even the doctor didn’t see it coming.”

“But I should have at least had dinner with her like we promised,” my eyes watering remembering my last broken promise to her. “I never even called her. That was the last time we spoke.”

“She’s moved on and so should you.” My sister is tired of this conversation. So am I. But that image of her still haunts me. That last image.

“Do you really think she’s forgiven me?” I ask, standing up now, watching a cardinal on our birdfeeder.

“Yes. She forgave you moments after you left,” my sister sighs into the phone.

“Ok. Thanks.” Not convinced, I hang up the receiver. And walk to the window to watch the birds flit back and forth. Leaning on one hip. Brow furrowed.

And arms crossed.

(This post was inspired by KitchWitch’s post which was inspired by the writing prompt at Write On Edge. Please visit Write on Edge   for more inspired writing!)

Thankful That Bin Laden Is Gone? Yes. Will I Celebrate? No.

Am I the only one out there who is just a wee bit queasy with the celebration of Osama bin Laden’s death?

Don’t get me wrong. I am glad that the world is rid of the mastermind behind countless terrorist attacks, most of all 9/11. Captured and killed? From what I’ve read of the reports, his death seemed necessary. But to read the headline “Bin Laden’s Demise: US Rejoices After A Decade”?

I’m not rejoicing.

Bin Laden’s death does not bring back our friends and family who perished ten years ago or since. Bin Laden’s death will not stop al-Qaida. Bin Laden’s death does not bring closure for anyone who lost a loved one through a terrorist act.

Bin Laden was a loathsome man. He spread hate. He celebrated violence. He encouraged evil. I am thankful that the world population is minus one diabolic villan. But there is still hate, violence and evil in the world without bin Laden.

I’m reassured to find that I’m not the only one uncomfortable with celebrating a man’s demise. An NPR online article revealed:“The Roman Catholic Church responded to the news of bin Laden’s death with this statement: “Faced with the death of a man, a Christian never rejoices, but reflects on the serious responsibility of everyone before God and man, and hopes and pledges that every event is not an opportunity for a further growth of hatred, but of peace.”” (Excellent article, by the way. Click on it when you’re done here.)

I don’t think my initial reaction to the celebrations erupting all over America and the world is necessarily Christian. It’s a reaction born of compassion for a human soul and an aversion to being the final judge of anyone’s fate.

But I still wrestle with my satisfaction that bin Laden got what was coming to him. I admit that I am grateful for our US troops and for what the rest of the world has contributed to flushing out evil and stopping it in its tracks.

I am thankful.

Yes.

But I will not celebrate.

Please Say That Tyler’s Story Will Change Just One Heart

Yesterday, I posted the faces of Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei in my anger. Angry at them for their callous disregard of our right to privacy. I wanted everyone to see who pushed Tyler Clementi over the edge. I want their faces to be known so that they can’t “just move” to avoid recognition.

Yesterday, I was angry.

Today, I am sad. So very, very sad that a beautiful human being has left this earth. A violinist. A student. A friend. A son.

I want to tell his parents how very, very sorry I am that they lost their son so tragically. I want to tell them I can’t imagine the pain and loss they are suffering. I want to tell them to “just breathe.”

Maybe it’s because of the losses I have endured these past few weeks. Maybe it’s because I lost a dear high school friend to suicide during our first month of college. Maybe I am hoping upon hope that Tyler’s death will be a wake-up call to every amateur videographer out there.

Just maybe.

“Yes, I understand that every life must end, aw-huh,..
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go” – But this was much too soon. And I ache knowing that Tyler felt so desperate, so alone, that he felt his only choice was suicide. And I can only imagine the pain and heartache those close to him (most of all, his parents) are feeling. Such guilt for not helping. Unneccessary guilt, unfounded guilt. But guilt, nonetheless.

“Oh I’m a lucky man, to count on both hands
the ones I love,..
Some folks just have one,
yeah, others, they’ve got none” – I am so blessed to have an amazing support system. And Tyler’s death reminds me of those out there who have precious few in their lives to turn to. I wish my arms were long enough to reach them all.

“Let’s just breathe” – We can only do what we can do. We can love our children with all our might. We can remember those in times of need. We can cling to our spouses, lovers or friends. But some days it’s all we can do to just breathe.

I chose to write about this again today because many of you commented that you were unaware of Tyler’s story. Tyler Clementi deserves more press, more than Ravi and Wei, that is. His is the spirit that was shattered. His is the life that was ended.

Nothing can bring Tyler back. But maybe his story will reach through the internet and touch hearts. Maybe it will turn hearts and change just one soul out there, encouraging kindness, compassion and most of all, privacy.

I Grieve. Or I Am A Rock. Take Your Pick.

 Two weeks ago, my brother-in-law died.

Yesterday was the anniversary of my daughter’s boyfriend’s death.

Today, my aunt died.

It’s been a rough few weeks. To make matters worse, my aunt wasn’t doing well for the past week or so and I had no idea. She lives over 2000 miles away and we kept in touch through emails and holiday cards. My parents knew. But chose not to tell me. (Dysfunction is alive and well in my family.) I already live with the regret of my last visit with my grandmother. And while I feel good about how I maintained my relationship with my aunt, it bothers me in this moment that I didn’t get the chance to talk to her one more time. If I had known she wasn’t doing well, I would have called her. She’s not the type to email me and tell me she’s suffering. And I had no idea.

“I grieve for you
You leave me
Let it out and move on
Missing what’s gone
They say life carries on
They say life carries on and on and on” – The grief in me misses the relatives and friends who have passed. This part of life sucks. Losing people. Good people. People who are loving, kind, fill you with joy. And because I’m getting older I’m in for more loss. How do you reconcile that? How to adjust? We carry on. But with more lonely moments than before.

 

“I’ve built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.” – Anger. At my parents for cutting me off like this. Punishing me for not playing by their rules. Anger at the loss I’ve experienced and the more to come. I will get through this. But for now I want to be an island. I want to never cry. I want to feel no pain.

 

Or

Take your pick.

Home. Where Is That Exactly?

I moved to the south 25 years ago. In that time, my blood has thinned, I say “y’all” easily, and sweet tea is my medicine. I crave the heat and humidity. When it starts getting cold (below 70 degrees) I want to hibernate. I discovered a love for the blues, salt water air, shrimp and grits. The slower pace doesn’t bother me in the slightest. 

My husband, who has lived here about 13 years, still thinks of the northeast as “home.” When he criticizes the south, when he gets hung up on stereotypes and generalities, I get defensive. When “The Book” (Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil) was released, I became fiercely protective of my beloved Savannah. Facebook has reconnected me with former high school  classmates who now live all over. When they find out I’m living in the South they’ll occasionally make  a crack about us crackers.

I am not amused.

When life throws lemons your way, most of us want to run home. But where is that exactly?

As many of you know, the place where I was born doesn’t create an image of comfort for me. I have fond memories of my childhood home, sure. But it isn’t the place I run to. And because I don’t have parental figures who offer a soft place to land, I have no one to run to, either.

It’s been a sad, sad past few days. My sister’s husband suffered much through the course of his illness. His death was scary, uncomfortable and violent. He was very aware in his last moments and my sister witnessed his tragic end. She is “home” and I am here. I can’t hug her. I can only talk to her over the phone. And while I want to be there for her, I dread going back there.

There is not where I find comfort.

I find comfort here, in Georgia, with our crazy sayings, odd fashion sense, yummy collards and cornbread. I much prefer the sweet southern comments by strangers, that a Yankee might perceive as less than genuine. But I don’t care. There is a friendliness here that I don’t find many other places. Fake or not, this little glass-half-full-gal prefers the smiles, friendly questions and terms of endearment at the grocery store.

Where is home?

Home is where your heart is.

As trite as that sounds, I am home.

My heart is here. With my amazing, loving husband – who sometimes makes me want to tear my hair out. My beautiful three children – who give me a taste of crazy every single day. In a great dream house. In a neighborhood with neighbors who are nice and neighbors who are not so nice. My heart embraces the steamy, hot summers and the snail’s pace. I am fascinated by the number of southern dialects and quaint phrases.

I will visit “home” in a few weeks for my brother-in-law’s memorial service. But where am I complete? Where do I feel most comfortable and wanted? Where is the familiar and the deep-rooted sentiment and love?

Here.

(Thank you, dear sweet readers, for your words of comfort and peace and understanding. Your thoughts mean more to me than you will ever know.)

I’ll Stand By You

“Oh, why you look so sad?
Tears are in your eyes
Come on and come to me now
Don’t be ashamed to cry
Let me see you through
’cause I’ve seen the dark side too” – Six months ago my daughter’s boyfriend died. She called me to her bedroom and when I opened the door she said, “Mommy, please don’t be mad at me. Phil is dead.” My mind started racing. Why would I be angry? Who is playing this terrible joke on my daughter? She burst into tears and started sobbing uncontrollably. I was in denial. How could this be? He just had dinner with us last weekend.

“When the night falls on you
You don’t know what to do
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less” – Phil had been addicted to Oxycontin. It was the reason for their break-up many times. I had no idea. A week before she had put her foot down and said she couldn’t deal with it anymore. It was the drugs or her. He chose her. He went off cold turkey. And died four days later from complications of withdrawal. The only people who knew he was quitting were her and two of his closest friends. Because withdrawal symptoms mimic the flu that’s all his parents thought he had. A common flu.

“So if you’re mad, get mad
Don’t hold it all inside
Come on and talk to me now
Hey, what you got to hide?” – She felt guilt. She felt anger. She felt tremendous loss. The pain she felt doesn’t even begin to describe. Her first love. Gone. At age 17. She withdrew from me, from us, from life.

“When you’re standing at the crossroads
And don’t know which path to choose
Let me come along
’cause even if you’re wrong
I’ll stand by you” – I wanted to be there for her. She was so lost. And so was I. But she pushed me away. Angry and ashamed. She felt that I would never trust her again. She felt she could never trust herself to make good decisions again.

“And when…
When the night falls on you, baby
You’re feeling all alone
You won’t be on your own” – I wanted to be there for her. I wish I had been there for Phil. He was such a bright, amazing young man. He treated my daughter like she was a princess. He was funny and smart and kind. So gentle with her little brothers, setting up train tracks, admiring their pictures that they drew. How could I have not seen it? Or even suspected? I used to teach teenagers. I know what to look for. I was completely in the dark. And my daughter was shouldering this burden all on her own.

“I’ll stand by you
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I’ll never desert you
I’ll stand by you” – She has worked through much of the pain. It still hurts. But it’s getting better. She talks to me more. She’s even made a major shift with friends and who she spends her time with most. She was tested recently with a friend going in the same direction as Phil. When I asked what was going on she said, “I have to worry about me. They have to want to quit. I can’t do that for them. So we don’t hang out anymore.” Such a hard lesson for her to have to learn. Such a horrible way to have to learn it.

“I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you” – I hope she knows that no matter what she’s dealing with I’m here for her. There’s nothing she can do or say that will ever push me away. Nothing. Ever. She’s my sweet, adorable angel. Forever my daughter. Forever the light of my life. I want to protect her. I never want her to hurt that way ever again. But if she does, I’m here to hold her, share in the tears and boost her up when she needs strength.

(Educate yourself. I had no idea this new favorite drug among teens was so highly addictive. And so easy to obtain. Nor did I know that withdrawal should only be done under medical supervision. If you have teens or pre-teens in your home and your school offers drug education seminars for parents, GO! Even if you think your children are immune to such temptations. You may learn valuable information that could save one of their friends.)

Who Will Visit When We’re Gone?

Graveyards have always fascinated me. I’m not sure why. But even as a child I loved strolling through graveyards, reading tombstones, imagining the stories behind them. Where I grew up there was a small graveyard, up on a hill, that was fairly hidden from the road. It overlooked a river. Over time, erosion caused some of the caskets to become visible on the side of the hill. I loved to visit that particular cemetery because it was very small and the last person to be buried there was in the 1940’s because frankly, it was full. There were graves of early settlers and notable residents of our area. On one visit I noticed that many people, of various ages, all died within a year of each other. I raced to the library to see what I could find. A horrible flu caused many people to perish. This investigation took place almost 30 years ago so I can’t remember if it was the infamous 1918 Spanish Flu – but it wouldn’t surprise me.

And so everywhere I go I love to visit a graveyard there. Bien sur, while in Paris I had to visit Père Lachaise Cemetery. Among the inhabitants: Moliere, Frederic Chopin, Sarah Bernhardt, Jim Morrison, Honore de Balzac,  Oscar Wilde. This cemetery contains some of the most interesting headstones I have ever seen.

Headstone for Georges Rodenbach

 I lived in an old brownstone in downtown Savannah, Georgia for a few years and would walk my dog to Colonial Park Cemetery. The Union troops during the Civil War kept horses and livestock in the graveyard. Bored, they tampered with headstones, making the oldest inhabitant 1700 years old when he died. Ten thousand bodies are buried there but due to disrepair and Union soldier mischief only 600 headstones remain.

Colonial Park Cemetary - Savannah, GA

 Bonaventure Cemetery is one of the most beautiful, also located in Savannah. It overlooks the marsh and is nestled under a canopy of live oak trees and Spanish moss. Certainly one of the most compelling headstones for me was Gracie. Little Gracie Watson was born in 1883 and an only child. She died, at age 6, from pneumonia and her parents were devastated. It is said that Mr. Watson suffered a deep depression after she died and was no longer able to stay in Savannah. Before he left, he commissioned John Walz to create the sculpture for her tombstone. When I lived there, people would leave little toys or flowers in her lap.

American poet, Conrad Aiken is also buried there. His marker, a stone bench with inscription, is one of my favorites. A friend of mine teases me because I want to be cremated when I die, scattered in the wind of places I loved.  I don’t want my body to clutter the earth, yet I love to visit cemeteries. I’ve told her I want a bench, just like Conrad Aiken’s, so people have a place to rest when they visit the people who didn’t mind staying in one place.

 Death scares me. Cemeteries don’t. To me, they are fascinating places of history and legacy. Wandering the graves I want to know the stories of the people who have died.

I create stories based on their age, epitaph, if family surrounds them. I wonder if anyone still visits them here. I imagine the life they lived and the imprint they left. Cemeteries make us pause and evaluate our own lives.  Will we make an impression that is lasting? Who will visit when we’re gone? 

Tunes for Tuesday – Here It Goes Again

I know this is a bit of an oldie. I’m sharing it again for those of you who missed it during its first trip around the internet. It always makes me giggle and the words are so perfect!

I don’t like living for the future. You know what I mean, “If I can just make it ’till the weekend” or “Tomorrow will be a better day.” There are times in my life when I look at my calendar and don’t see a free moment for days. “Just hold on until next week Thursday.” I hate it when life gets like that.

And then I think of the Rosanne Rosannadanna skits. It’s Always Somethin’. And it is, isn’t it? We’re always running two steps ahead of disaster. Choices that seem to make or break us.

And then I was reminded of this song by Ok Go. Not only do I love the video; I love the lyrics.

“Just when you think you’re in control,
just when you think you’ve got a hold,
just when you get on a roll,
Oh here it goes, here it goes, here it goes again.” – Life was going smoothly. But crazy, as usual. And my in-laws were in town. I had carpool for the entire week because of a mistake I made the week before. But things were slowing down and I was about to get my house back after my in-laws left in a few days.

“I should have known,
should have known,
should have known again,
But here it goes again.
Oh, here it goes again.” – Now, I couldn’t have predicted what would come next. Who could have? The day before my in-laws were to leave my daughter’s boyfriend dies. Tragedy hits our house heavier than I would have ever expected.

“It starts out easy, something simple, something sleazy, something inching past the edge of reserve.
Now through the lines of the cheap venetian blinds your car is pulling off of the curb.
Hey!” – Blindsided. Completely caught off guard. Not the kind of thing most people run into as far as life’s detours go. But it was our own house of pain for a while.

“I guess there’s got to be a break in the monotony, but Jesus, when it rains how it pours.” – No kidding. Wait, that’s not strong enough……No s*#t!

“Oh here it goes again.
I should have known, should have known,
should have known again,
but here it goes again.
Oh, here it goes, here it goes.
Oh here it goes again.
I should have known, should have known,
but here it goes again.” – But things are better here. Every day gets a little better for my daughter. Yesterday, while checking in with all of you I overheard her laughing a good belly laugh on the phone with one of her friends. I’m so glad she taking back those moments of joy. But me? I’m just bracing myself for the next detour. Hopefully, we’ll be spared the more life altering ones for a little while.

(When you click on the video below you’ll see a message directing you to Youtube. Click the “Watch on Youtube” and it’ll take you right there!)

May You Rest In Peace, Sweet Boy

This is not supposed to happen to MY baby girl. This happens to you other mothers out there. Not that I wish it on you. Of course not. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. But I’m just as bad as you teenagers out there. Thinking you’re invincible. Thinking that you’re so grown up. Thinking life won’t throw you devastating curve balls.

A sweet, kind, funny, adorable soul left this earth tonight and he was just 17. A senior in high school. His whole life ahead of him. And my daughter loved him. With all her heart. Her first “true love.”

I’m shocked. This CAN’T be happening. This happens in the movies. On TV. To other people. Not me. How do you help your daughter through something like this? I want to fix it. Rewind the tape. Stop all this from happening. Why? Why? Why?

I’m angry. How dare you take a piece of my daughter’s heart and then steal it away, never to give it back? How dare you treat your life so carelessly? Life is a precious gift. You threw your life back at God’s face. My daughter will never get to say goodbye, tell you how much she loved you ever again.

I’m scared. I want my daughter even closer now. Why do our children have to grow away from us? Make decisions that are risky, wrong, damaging? Why can’t we keep them close? Help them with EVERY stage? Keep them from every harm. Ward off danger. Wrap them in bubble wrap. Hold their tender hands always.

Go. Right now. Kiss your children. Tell them you love them. I don’t care what age they are. I don’t care if they pull away from you ’cause they’re at that embarrassed stage. You squeeze them. You hold them. You guide them. You play with them. Each minute with them is a precious gift. Don’t you ever forget that.

Tunes for Tuesday – Without You (Rent)

I’ll never forget when my grandmother died. It was very sudden. She was an amazing woman. So bright and energetic and fun. She had this amazing calendar, in her head, of every birthday of anyone who was important to her. She knew every  President and First Lady’s birthday that had served in her lifetime. She knew my ex-boyfriend’s birthdays. And her birthday cards to us always arrived exactly on that day, except Sunday of course. But it always amazed me how she timed it to arrive – no matter where in the country we lived, no matter how unreliable mail service can be – exactly on time.

My sister called  from 1000 miles away to tell me. I was so stunned but I had a little girl and I had to keep going. I remember I had to run to the store.

“Without you, the seeds root
the flowers bloom
the children play
The stars gleam
the poets dream
the eagles fly
without you” –  As I was driving to the store other people were driving, running stop signs, children were playing on the lawn, the wind even dared to continue to blow. I couldn’t believe the sun was shining. Didn’t they know my grandmother had just died?

“The Earth turns
the sun burns
but I die, without you” – I actually felt a piece of me missing. And I had so much regret. My last image of her was her standing, with her arms crossed across her chest, in front of her house as we drove away. We had visited, but not as long as we said we would. And we had cancelled dinner with her, wanting to get to the airport a little sooner without having to rush. She was disappointed. She was trying not to show it. But I still die a little each time I remember. The last afternoon I spent with her I disappointed her. I took for granted that I would be able to make it up to her on the next trip.
“The world revives
colors renew
but I know blue
only blue
lonely blue
willingly blue
Without you” – My world has been a little empty without her. I miss her feisty nature. Her quick, political banter. She was a die-hard Democrat. I swear I boned up on the Republican issues just so I could spar with her. She died just before the Bush/Gore election. How she would have loved watching them count chads. I missed her so much that Thanksgiving.

“Without you, the eyes gaze
the legs walk
the lungs breathe
The mind churns
the heart yearns
the tears dry without you” – She died 9 years ago and some days, like today, it feels like yesterday. I still dream about her. I think of her every time I see a cardinal or work a crossword puzzle. I drink coffee out of a cup that reminds me of her. I hate it that she never met the two little boys named after her husband and her son.
“Life goes on
but I’m gone
’cause I die, without you
without you” – I have experienced other loss in my life but her death hit me the hardest. For days after she died I honestly couldn’t believe that people were just going about their lives as if nothing had happened. Didn’t they know that a beautiful soul had just left this earth? Didn’t they know that Elsie was gone and the family and friends that loved her  were deeply grieving?

I still miss you so much, Grandma. So very, very, very much.