Fifty Third

I will never again let those little stings go by unremarked.  I will recognize them the instant they slither out of your mouth and I will pounce on them and bite their heads off and turn them back around.

You are clever enough that I will have to be subtle, perhaps I will pause, as if considering your words, looking puzzled and ask “Are you concerned about the contents of my purse?”  

Or just “ that’s an interesting thing to ask”.  

Oh, oh, I know. I will look at you, take a slow breath and say “You seem to have strong feelings about this.” 

That’s a really subtle way of calling you an ass. 

Perfect!

Fifty Second

This is the eulogy that my cat wrote for me (at least the one i'm sure he would write if he could):

She was the best.  

She was warm and was the only person who had a lap big enough to contain all of my 18 glorious pounds. 

She let me sit beneath her bent legs under the covers.  This was such a great place, until she farted.  Ugh.  

But still I stayed, warm and dark and covered.

She didn’t feed me enough though.  I would ask very plainly, sitting, and then even lying down, next to my sparkling empty dish.  I don’t think she was stupid, but I really can’t understand why she couldn’t comprehend my request.  Any other whim I had was quickly satisfied.  

If I looked cute and big-eyed next to the dining room table, most often I would get a bite of something wonderful.  I never understood what happened next, when she would say to the room, “I don’t know WHY he begs.” There would be laughter.  She was happy. I liked that.

I followed her around the house so that I could sit on her.  I can hear a lap being made two rooms away from a dead sleep. 

I liked that she rarely passed by my sleeping spot without a kind comment and a stroke for me.  Who doesn’t like hearing about how handsome I am several times a day?

She rarely brought unsavory people to our house, and when she did, I would growl and smack them on the nose until they stopped trying to sniff my behind.

Is it dinner time now?

Fifty First

I wish i had all those years back.  I wish i had known then what i know now.  I wish i had made different choices at so many points.  I wish i had become a doctor or an accountant or a computer programmer or an artist or a physical therapist or an engineer.

Even though i didn’t become any of those, i still could.  Although i will probably never become the gymnast i so wanted to be in middle school.

For you i wish the patience to let yourself try many things, even if it means starting all over.  I wish i could convey to you just how much more time and opportunities you have.  I wish for you to give yourself the peace and time to slowly uncover where you are going, letting the future disappear into an unknowable mist, and being okay with that. Check it out, try it out, it doesn’t work, so try something else.  Look back and be able to say, i didn’t like that, but now i know for sure since i tried it.  Remember your first sushi?  You were dubious, but gamely tried that glistening morsel.  I think you most enjoyed being allowed to eat with your hands. 

Keep trying, I’ve got your back.  That’s what i wish.

Fiftieth

Fear.  Fear brings me to my knees.  The worst thing is that what I fear is nothing that is happening, but something that might happen.  So, FTF (Fuck The Future) is going to be my new motto.  Not that it will help, but it will remind me that I should take a few deep breaths and save the worrying for reality.  I used to have a neighbor who told me that I excelled at "anticipatory grief".  Another word I like is horriblizing.  I happen to have a PhD in horriblizing.  I wonder if that is a science or an art degree.

I think that if you are not afraid, you are not paying attention.

My cat is getting old, and was recently diagnosed with chronic kidney disease.  I am afraid of him dying.  I feel like I can’t take any more loss in my life right now.  Of course I will if I have to, but I am still afraid of my grief at the thought of life without Brown Cat.

Behind that grief, there is the shame of not getting over previous grief in the correct amount of time.  How long is it okay to be sad over losing a cat?  How about a brother?  How about a husband?  

How about forever?

I still miss Eliot and he’s been gone 12 years.  Sometimes I still see his big white furry body out of the corner of my eye.  I like to think that he feels me remembering him in those moments, although I don’t believe it.  I still like these glimpses though, it is the thought of his spirit that was so precious to me that makes me smile.

Forty Ninth

I am fat, i weigh more than i ever have except when i was pregnant.  I only have two pairs of jeans that fit, and they are too tight.

I am not exercising, something i have done consistently for 20+ years, but not now.

I am lonely, but i do nothing about it.

I don't read.  It seems too hard.  All my life i have read books, but not now.  I just play games on my phone.

I don't sleep unless i drink and smoke.

I drink too much.  It's the only thing that makes me happy.

I force myself out of bed each day, but i always feel fear upon leaving my bed.

I hate my ex.  I hate him often, every day more than once.  This cannot be good for me.  People tell me to get over it, but they don't tell me how.

I am old, and ugly and wrinkled and stiff.

I cannot imagine anyone who would love me.  Worse, i can't imagine anyone i would love.

This is why i don't write.

Forty Eighth

Shelley.

One of the first times i met you, certainly the first time i was at your house, you told me that your mother was drunk.  I was very young and had never (knowingly) been around a drunk person before. I was afraid, and acted very stiffly around your mother as she showed us a card trick.  

For you it was a casual statement, an indication of just how different your life was from mine.  

You took me to places in 8th grade that i would not have otherwise been.  I learned to smoke dope that year, because of you.  We snuck out of houses and wandered the streets late at night.  Walking several miles to tape a joint on the door of someone who was important to you at the time.

Talking in your room, covering issues from coloring books to masturbation.

I was at your house the night your oldest brother was having a psychotic episode and was threatening to jump off the loft.

You were there during the time that i decided that having my eyes really wide open would be cool.  All you said was, "it's cool how i can see white all around your eyes,"  rather than, "Oh for god's sake, cut that out."

I was not cool.  You moved on to the cool kids.

You called me, maybe 5 years after we had been close to tell me your dog had died. because you knew i would understand what he meant to you.

I saw you, years later at your brother's funeral.  We hadn't been close in years, but i knew my attendance would please you.  It did.

The last time i spoke to you, you called me late at night, after no communication in 15 years, and told me that i had to read "Captain Corelli's Mandolin."  I haven't read it yet, nor have i forgotten the title.

Shelley, you were wasted.  You were so smart and funny and damaged.  You never had a chance.  I wish i had know how to help, but i couldn't even help myself.

Forty Seventh

Do you suppose that loneliness has something to teach me?

That sounds kind of like a stupid question.  But i found myself asking it today.  

Still reeling from the death of my brother.

Grief stamped a memory inside my body that will never go away, and experiencing this new grief has strengthened the bond between grief and me.  It will never be far from the surface now that i know it.  It's a part of me now.

I am working on the speech i wish i'd been able to give at his memorial, a speech i will never be able to give.  I daren't deny the legend that is Saint Jim.