River: Amethyst Rose: 30
This post is going to be rather disorganized, and probably a lot shorter than I expected it to be, but I think it will be mainly about grieving. I'm always somewhat weird around the edges this time of year.
My middle child, Amethyst Rose, was stillborn thirty years ago. I'm... okay? I'm still getting used to the idea that my oldest turned thirty-five this year, and that my youngest is the same age I was when I married Colleen. I didn't notice any hill, but this damned handbasket seems to be picking up speed regardless.
I think most of my grieving this month is for America, not Ame. (The coincidence is not intentional.) I need to write about that, too, because writing appears to be how I process grief. Writing prose poems, mostly, about a totally fictional but nonetheless comforting afterlife. A few songs.
So, how does it feel to be thirty, Ame?
//Let's get this straight -- you're asking a fictional character that you created what she feels like to have non-existed for the last thirty years?//
When you put it that way...
//Silly Bear. A little less real, I suppose, but it's still a comfortable kind of unreality. I'm glad I can still be around when you need me.//
//I like Curio, by the way. He's a good cat.//
He was. I'm glad you found each other. See you next year?
//Always, Daddy. I love you.//
So, yeah; guess I didn't have as much to say as I thought I would a week ago. Doesn't matter. Still there in the twilight my Amethyst Rose
Will be blooming untarnished by tears. *
[Crossposted from mdlbear.dreamwidth.org, where it has
comments. You can comment here, or there with openID, but wouldn't you really rather be on Dreamwidth?]