Didn't You Know....

...that time stood still. That months go by, and you don't notice. And then it hits you, at work, that she won't call you up and ask you to drop by and help with the cleaning, the tree, the food, the cookies....

That you don't have to take off the day before Easter to help.

Acutally, it's sad. That's when it hit me. When the vacation calendar for work went around. That I wouldn't have to take Easter off to help decorate or cook or clean. That's when the tears formed, threatening like lost memories, to unleash the torrents that wished to fall. And it's gotten worse.

"The 'Firsts' are the worst," she said. "The first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas without them...".

I got through Thanksgiving okay. But that wasn't her holiday. It was Christmas. And now I'm painfully reminded with every Christmas song, with every tree and ornament I see, that she isn't here. And every day of this week, and probably every day of what's left of this month, I cry silently at my desk at work, mourning for her. This was her season. Which I never really understood, because she adamantly denied ever liking it. "I hate Christmas," she would say. And there I would be, after I was sixteen, saying, "Well, if it's your dream to just leave us money in an evelope, I don't care. GO AHEAD. I don't care, Mom. Just give us the money if it makes you happy." There I would be, even inviting my friends into this hell, to help with everything. I was annoyed with her complaints, year after year. But it does make sense, just like the spice cabinet, in a way that had to do with her childhood. Never having enough, she had to give so much. And that, I think, is the saddest of all. Her older brothers probably won't admit it, and her younger brother and sister didn't know of those times. She was the only one who dared to hint at what life in the household was like at time. And we bared the brunt of it. But that doesn't mean that I don't cry for what I lost. I do.

And even though she didn't teach me to make chocolate mousse, I still know plenty of other reciepies. Other, everyday reciepies. Except the chicken and gravy. I still can't remember that. Not that I won't try, mind you, but the exact proportions will allude me until I figure it out.

I still haven't dared to open the cookbook boxes. That, I think, will still be too painful right now.

I still love her and miss her.

Time Has Stood Still
 
Why did you leave me? 
You hadn't shown me how to make chocolate mousse yet. 
I hadn't had the chance for you to see me get married, to watch me have children.
You didn't get to see me graduate.
 
As I stood there by your bedside, wanting to rip off the ventilator and yell, and scream and cry, you were slowly dying.  I couldn't say much to you because I knew.  Because I was right.  I know you did hear me when I told you to go quickly because you did.  And you visited me.  I was in a car when you passed away, and I know that you couldn't have had the person who came for you come to see me.  I know these things.
 
Maybe you understand now why I am the way I am.  I am sorry that it is like that, but I always felt that's the way it had to be.  There would be only so much I would guardedly say, only so much I would let you know.  But now you must know.  I've there's very little you don't know when you get to where you are.  You are just a memory away, a whisp of imagination that I can always talk to. 
 
And I want to know what all you said on that tape.  By the way, I am as nosy as you are, even if it causes me pain.
 

A letter to a dear friend...

Dear James,

I know you saw it in the paper. Even though you don't live here anymore, I know you get the Sentiel/Journal. And I know you saw the obit. I wish could have spoken to you, however briefly, during the service. But there were so many people there, the relatives, that I once depended on my mom knowing, but then I had to know myself; co-workers; aunts, uncles, and the like; friend's mothers; people from church, the grade school teachers, like Mrs. Davis, talking about how much they loved the letters that my mom would write to excuse our absences...it was all daunting. And now you're back, and I didn't even get to visit. Ron commented on how current boy did not sit with me, and he was ready to kick current boy's ass...and I had to tell him that it was MY choice. I am glad, in a way, that I did not marry him. In some ways, as you know, I wait for that one person. You know, the one I've seen in dreams. Maybe I'm being girlish (oh, how dare I!), or melodramatic, but I have that weird unshakable feeling.

Like I did with my mom. I was the only one who knew, and I told her. I feel bad, and at the same time, I feel release. I told her everything I needed to, when she was alive and coherent. That helped.

"Gravedigger, dig me a shallow grave, so that I can feel the rain"

I don't know what's going to happen now. I'm scared but thrilled. And if no one wants to go on the ride with me, I'm not afraid to go all by myself.

I am not afraid of lonliness. The lonliness which drives all of us.

I am not afriad of the tape. Even though it makes me cry. And she wondered if Liz ever loved her. Do you know (and I think you do) how much restraint it took on my part not to SLAP her?

I am the past. I am the future.

Love,
The Spoiled Brat

A Time...

So on an average Tuesday, I get blindsided.

Old boy comes into the bar.

Now, I want to say something here:
I'm not one to kiss and tell...at least, to those whom i've thought were my friends. There are some people that I've befriended that haven't always been such a wise choice. One has been okay about not sharing information, others have not been. Granted, The Artist would know who he is, The Writer would know who he is, and there are a few others who would know who they are. And since my blogging world, thus far, is limited to my friends, there is some information that I share with them, especially when it comes to things said and motives. And I have to tell them, after all, because --oddly enough-- I'm the one not knowledgable in such things. Which is a topsy turvy world for me...I give them advice, and then share something drastic with them. I know just enough....

And old boy walked into the bar. I like him, he's a good sort. He's said things that have made my heart melt but I'm so spy-like that I choose not to show it. And I may tell current boy, but that one seems to need a kick in the ass for things.

Which brings me to the Fiancee. I don't want to go back out with him, ever. But at the same time, I wish I could have the communication we'd had. There were good things about him...to quote The Artist, "You're really crazy for dumping him...". There are people out there who are totally surprised that I even listed to their advice and took it to heart.

Maybe I am Crazy Girl. Maybe I do want my Nathaniel/Wicked. Maybe I do want the male equivalent of me, no matter how absurd the idea is. Truth is, I don't think I'll find it. Truth is, I don't want to believe that there's a man out there who knows exactly who I am and is willing to call me on it, who loves me for the foibles and follies as much as the brain, the dark knight in gossemer armor who has fought bravely for the Devil himself. Everything points to the knight in shining armor, the noble King and not Satan. But why me? I can change personalites with the tide...Why me?

I guess the whole thing boils down to a "myth" that my mother told me..."Men will fall all over you when you're older." I was twelve. How was I supposed to know that would translate to twenty-six?

Wicked, where are you?