Jim is Free

Besides going to the beach, Jim and I used to go to Gillespie Park and feed the squirrels roasted unsalted peanuts in the shell. With each visit they came to know us and once we were spotted we felt joy as we watched them scurry down from the trees and run over. Jim and I sat in the same spot every time so they knew the drill. We did it so often that a few of the braver ones would take the peanuts directly from our out-stretched fingers. For the rest of the crew, we would throw the nuts a few feet to them from our perch on beach towels at the top of a little hill.We enjoyed doing this for many reasons. First, the squirrels were fun to watch and it was fun feeding them. Secondly, having a squirrel take a peanut from your fingers was a thrill. Lastly, it was meditative and a quiet time for us to be together. It was always hard for us to pull ourselves away from there and go back to the realities and stresses of life.


Jim passed away this morning at 11:15. I was at work and was planning on leaving at 1 o'clock to see him. With his brother's urgent text message, I packed up and left at 10:30am instead. When I walked into Jim's room, I saw his sister-in-law at his side and I heard her tell Jim that I was there. I dropped my things on the table, hugged his brother and then hugged his sister-in-law. Before I sat down in the chair next to Jim's bed, his sister-in-law told me that he was waiting for me before he would pass.

"Hi, Sweetie." I took one of his hands in mine and with the other I caressed his head. "Hi, Baby. It's okay. Everything is okay." After a couple of labored breaths that seemed like hours apart, he stopped.

Free from pain, free from guilt, free from all of the bad memories that haunted him. Jim is free.

Stained with Red

I never asked you to change for me, to make my life better.  I thought it all would come naturally and a little of it did but it didn't last.  How can I know you if you don't know yourself?  The evil twins and their handmaiden surrounded you.  Your past clung to you like a dying man to a stick in the water wanting to use you to keep it alive.

How is it that my heart still bleeds for you?  For you?  I don't even know you.  The real you.  How is it that the pain of loss is still alive?  I keep thinking I have pulled the knife out only to look down and discover it is still there.  Just a little messier.  The handle a little more stained with red.

Aunt Audrey

Tomorrow my sister Eve, my mother, and I are driving down south to the East Coast to join my cousins and others to say our final farewell to my Aunt Audrey.  I don't know how else to put it except there was an affinity, an understanding, between my aunt and I.

 

Growing up she wasn't my only aunt and even though she lived the furthest away whenever I had the opportunity to spend time with her I always felt the most comfortable and accepted by her.  She laughed the easiest and had a way of making light of situations that instead of making me feel belittled for feeling so heavy I felt the load ease up and saw that maybe I was just a smidgen too serious about the whole thing.  Even though she was no pushover she never made me feel that I was any less when my introverted ways seemingly held me back.  She accepted me and didn't try to change me.  She challenged my thinking by talking to me and putt out other perspectives in front of me.  She knew I would think about what she said and make an informed decision that would be mine.  

 

So, I loved her not only because she was my mother's sister or my cousins' mother but because of how she loved me.  She knew she always had a place in my heart and I knew I was loved by her.

 

Goodbye, Aunt Audrey.  I'll see you again.

Break

I am at my best with you, at my worst with you.
Satisfying happiness, intense pain.

The highs and lows are wearing me out, breaking my heart, bleeding me to death.

Feeling ugly, not wanted, not needed, not heard.

Bodies in the same airspace circling the same skies but not meeting.

The petals are falling off the flower that used to be so vibrant and alive.

The edges are drying up and hardening.

As each cut clots the scar remains, imperfect healing felt with each movement.

The lying did me in. Felt so stupid. Still do.

How do I find my place again? Suspicions were right.

Wish I could bathe in healing waters. Go back. Can't.

Anger is the blanket covering the sheets of hurt.

My fingertips are white holding on. For how long?