Writing
I tried to write this afternoon. I stared at a blank piece of paper for 20 minutes and then wrote this.
As if things weren't grim enough, the first thing this morning the radio reminded me it was 40 years ago today that Bobby Kennedy was killed.
I remember my sister waking me up in the wee hours of June 5, 1968, to tell me what they were saying on tv. I got up and watched it crying.
I was taking driver's ed in summer school that year and wanted not to go in that day. My father, totally unable to understand why I was crying, lost his temper and insisted I go. (I know he couldn't understand it because he told me so.)
I remember the dress I wore that day and that I went to school and cried and cried and cried. I don't remember much else that day, but in my head, that was the day the 60s ended.
And now, today, as they remind us of his death, his brother is dying. The last of the four Kennedy boys: Joe who died in WWII, Jack and Bobby killed by assassins' bullets, and now Ted with a different sort of bullet in his brain. (And there are more connections and resonances in my head. A few years ago a dear friend died of the same kind of cancer Ted has. More grief to resonate down the years.)
And, of course, this makes my own recent losses reverberate through my heart. Bob -- I knew and loved him for nearly 30 years. Do you have any idea how long 30 years is? I haven't even known Jordin that long, although, interestingly, the first time I remember hearing Jordin's name I was in Bob's company. That little con in Memphis where msminlr sang The Designer, by Jordin at the filksing. I wonder which convention it was where we pulled the fast one on the irritating blond. I remember the time we pulled the Starship Unity gag on the lumberjack. So much laughter and song. So many memories in 30 years.
And Loki - I held him for the first time when he was 3 days old. I was the first thing he saw when his eyes opened. He came home with us on Memorial Day (a friend had been hand raising him after his mother abandoned him at birth), and he died on Memorial Day. Almost every day for 13 years he snuggled with me in the morning, purring into my ear, begged for bites of whatever I was eating, and was just adorable. I still expect him to come running when Jordin comes in with take-out. I still expect to see him curled up in a round black circle on my bed in late afternoons. Habits reinforced daily for 13 years are damnably hard to break.
The worst part of death is its horrible horrible finality. No reprieve, no appeal, no going back.
I have a loving husband, enough money, friends, and a roof over my head -- paradise to many of the world's people. But right now, life sucks and I'm tired of it. Tired of being unable to speak without a lump in my throat. Tired of bursting into tears over things no one else can see because they're in my head. Tired of waking up first thing every morning to the memories of loss. Tired, tired, tired.
As if things weren't grim enough, the first thing this morning the radio reminded me it was 40 years ago today that Bobby Kennedy was killed.
I remember my sister waking me up in the wee hours of June 5, 1968, to tell me what they were saying on tv. I got up and watched it crying.
I was taking driver's ed in summer school that year and wanted not to go in that day. My father, totally unable to understand why I was crying, lost his temper and insisted I go. (I know he couldn't understand it because he told me so.)
I remember the dress I wore that day and that I went to school and cried and cried and cried. I don't remember much else that day, but in my head, that was the day the 60s ended.
And now, today, as they remind us of his death, his brother is dying. The last of the four Kennedy boys: Joe who died in WWII, Jack and Bobby killed by assassins' bullets, and now Ted with a different sort of bullet in his brain. (And there are more connections and resonances in my head. A few years ago a dear friend died of the same kind of cancer Ted has. More grief to resonate down the years.)
And, of course, this makes my own recent losses reverberate through my heart. Bob -- I knew and loved him for nearly 30 years. Do you have any idea how long 30 years is? I haven't even known Jordin that long, although, interestingly, the first time I remember hearing Jordin's name I was in Bob's company. That little con in Memphis where msminlr sang The Designer, by Jordin at the filksing. I wonder which convention it was where we pulled the fast one on the irritating blond. I remember the time we pulled the Starship Unity gag on the lumberjack. So much laughter and song. So many memories in 30 years.
And Loki - I held him for the first time when he was 3 days old. I was the first thing he saw when his eyes opened. He came home with us on Memorial Day (a friend had been hand raising him after his mother abandoned him at birth), and he died on Memorial Day. Almost every day for 13 years he snuggled with me in the morning, purring into my ear, begged for bites of whatever I was eating, and was just adorable. I still expect him to come running when Jordin comes in with take-out. I still expect to see him curled up in a round black circle on my bed in late afternoons. Habits reinforced daily for 13 years are damnably hard to break.
The worst part of death is its horrible horrible finality. No reprieve, no appeal, no going back.
I have a loving husband, enough money, friends, and a roof over my head -- paradise to many of the world's people. But right now, life sucks and I'm tired of it. Tired of being unable to speak without a lump in my throat. Tired of bursting into tears over things no one else can see because they're in my head. Tired of waking up first thing every morning to the memories of loss. Tired, tired, tired.