I have a lot of feelings, and when I do I need to write.
I am in Florida, having flown down in the middle of a wind-whipped snowstorm to get to my grandfather's side before he dies. He's 99, my last surviving grandparent, and a beloved fixture in my life. I saw him tonight, and he may not be here tomorrow. Mere words can't describe him, nor can they describe my uncle (his son) who died two years ago from a disease from exposure to Agent Orange during the Viet Nam War, nor can they describe my grandmother (his wife), who died four years ago after a long struggle with Alzheimer's.
Someday I'll try to capture them on paper, but today is not that day.
I am not staying at the house with my mother but am at a hotel on the beach. I realized that it's the first time I've ever stayed alone down here; mr. muse and I have visited and stayed in a hotel, but I've always been playing the part of daughter/granddaughter otherwise and slept in the guest room.
It's a nice enough hotel, and we splurged a bit so my room has a huge balcony. We knew I'd want my space. Even though it's cold I have the doors to the balcony open. In part it's because I did leave New England in a bitter winter snowstorm, so the temperature in the low '50s here seems like a nice change, but mostly it's so I can hear the roar of the surf. We don't have beaches and surf like this up where I live.
My uncle moved to Florida after the war to get to do the things he loved to do most in the world: surfing and boating, being on the water, being free. My grandparents retired here near him some years later, and I remember going on long walks on the beach with my grandmother when I was little, picking up shells and getting just the right side of sunburnt to feel like I was somewhere different. She and I, too, had a tradition of floating in their pool at night under the stars and telling secrets of our lives. My grandfather has never cared much for the ocean, as far as I can tell, but he has always loved being warm. He also likes being here for the grits, because he's a good South Carolina boy, even though Florida grits almost don't count as real grits. (Some people put syrup or brown sugar on them; this is heresy, you see.)
It's a beautiful clear night, and I'm up high, like a bird. I can see Orion and one of the dippers right above me. Everyone else in the hotel is being sensible and staying in, so I'm the only person in sight when I stand outside. It's just me, the stars, and the endless rhythm of the surf.
I'm an agnostic. I don't believe in life after death. I don't believe in spirits watching out for you. I believe that death is finite, and I hate that it is.
But as I sit here and listen to the waves and look at the moonlit sand on the beach and the endless black of the sky, I almost feel like I am with these people I love who chose this place to live from their hearts, who loved the sea and the stars. I feel like I understand them a little more, can stand a bit in their shoes. At least I am remembering them, and that's the best we can do: remember those we love so that they never die within us.
Comments off, because what is there to say?
Someday I'll try to capture them on paper, but today is not that day.
I am not staying at the house with my mother but am at a hotel on the beach. I realized that it's the first time I've ever stayed alone down here; mr. muse and I have visited and stayed in a hotel, but I've always been playing the part of daughter/granddaughter otherwise and slept in the guest room.
It's a nice enough hotel, and we splurged a bit so my room has a huge balcony. We knew I'd want my space. Even though it's cold I have the doors to the balcony open. In part it's because I did leave New England in a bitter winter snowstorm, so the temperature in the low '50s here seems like a nice change, but mostly it's so I can hear the roar of the surf. We don't have beaches and surf like this up where I live.
My uncle moved to Florida after the war to get to do the things he loved to do most in the world: surfing and boating, being on the water, being free. My grandparents retired here near him some years later, and I remember going on long walks on the beach with my grandmother when I was little, picking up shells and getting just the right side of sunburnt to feel like I was somewhere different. She and I, too, had a tradition of floating in their pool at night under the stars and telling secrets of our lives. My grandfather has never cared much for the ocean, as far as I can tell, but he has always loved being warm. He also likes being here for the grits, because he's a good South Carolina boy, even though Florida grits almost don't count as real grits. (Some people put syrup or brown sugar on them; this is heresy, you see.)
It's a beautiful clear night, and I'm up high, like a bird. I can see Orion and one of the dippers right above me. Everyone else in the hotel is being sensible and staying in, so I'm the only person in sight when I stand outside. It's just me, the stars, and the endless rhythm of the surf.
I'm an agnostic. I don't believe in life after death. I don't believe in spirits watching out for you. I believe that death is finite, and I hate that it is.
But as I sit here and listen to the waves and look at the moonlit sand on the beach and the endless black of the sky, I almost feel like I am with these people I love who chose this place to live from their hearts, who loved the sea and the stars. I feel like I understand them a little more, can stand a bit in their shoes. At least I am remembering them, and that's the best we can do: remember those we love so that they never die within us.
Comments off, because what is there to say?