The Things I Know

I've just had a revelation as to why the whole situation with my aunt bothered me.

It was a Tuesday.  She'd gone into the hospital yet again, pain so unbearable, she couldn't stand.  That will sometimes happen with a stroke and given her health, it was only a matter of time before the stroke happened.  Luckily - or maybe unluckily - she survived the stroke and did well with rehab.

Until the pain got worse.

Maybe, just maybe, I would be wrong about my feeling, that complete dread, that this is the end and to say goodbye now before it happenes.  Grandma was there in the dream, that swirling dream about the place where my aunt had lived for many years, my mom answered the door, Grandma was there, my mom, my great aunt and uncle, dressed for a nice occasion, and my Grandma said to me, "We're waiting for Joan to come back."  She was not there yet...but soon would be.

I will mention now, I've never met my Grandma, my dad and aunt's mother.  She died before I was born.  But she still smiled at me and kissed my forhead in my dream.

It was Tuesday.  "Please call me back," I heard my dad's voice say in the voicemail, "I need to talk to you about your aunt's condition."

We'd go to lunch every so often, and in those days, many times, places I could not afford on my own.  We - and the whole family, actually - loved good food.  The Coast, Sabor, North Shore Bistro.  Red Lobster was always hilarious, as she'd bring her own kitchen shears to crack the king crab legs.  The plate would come, and she'd pull a plastic bag with the shears out of her purse.  The last year she went to State Fair, she had trouble walking even past the gate.  "I'm not going to make it," she said.  "Don't be silly," I told her, "they have scooters and wheelchairs for rent.  Let's get one."  As a child, I loved going with her on the bus to Northridge, I'd lean agaist her and say, "Auntie, you are really soft.  You make a good pillow."  She was my auntie pillow.

"So...I'm calling you back.  What's going on?" I said to my dad.  "She's decided to discontinue dialysis," he said, his voice cracking a little.  "She will be going into hospisce.  The doctors say it will take about a week."

I had called on a Saturday in September to see if I could do my laundry at their house because the people in my apartment building were assholes when it came to laundry.  "Hello," my aunt answered, pain evident in her voice.  "Are you okay?" I asked, forgetting about my laundry.  So from then on, almost every Saturday morning, I would go over and do her laundry, to spare her the pain of going up and down the stairs to the basement.  Of course, I brought my laundry over to do as well.  We'd sit and chat, watch How It's Made, munch on ten year old cheddar and crackers.

It took forever for them to transfer her to hospice.  They wheeled her in.  "I'm so sorry," she said, "I never wanted to be a burden."  "You were never a burden," my dad told her.  "Because we love you," I said, "nothing was a big deal or a burden."  "Stay with me," she said.  "I will, Auntie, I will."  So every day for 7 days, I showed up with my lunch, watched TV, and talked to her, even when she no longer could respond.

There are times in my life where people disappoint me.  I'm okay with that, it happens, it's life.  But to be honest, there are some disappointments so horrible, I can never reconcile it with my soul.  It's like the chasm of disappointment creates a river of resentment so deep, that nothing the other peson says or does will ever repair it.  I recognize those moments when they happen; I'm just not good at letting go at that point and freeing myself from my feelings.  Oh, I loved Zombie, I really did.  He disappointed me often but I learned to live with it, even when he talked about himself for 20 minutes straight before I could blurt out, "Joan's going into hospice".

I flipped through the channels.  Nothing was on that I wanted to watch.  I touched her arm.  "I'm not good at this, Auntie," I said.  I spotted the CD case - the one she had always taken with her to dialysis - and flipped through it.  I don't remember what the title of the CD was, but it was all the church songs, some of them the ones that I had loved to sing when I was in choir.  I turned off the TV, put on the CD, and for the first time in a very long time, I sang church songs, touching her arm.  She was still soft.  Still my auntie pillow.

"All I need for you to do is my dishes," I told him.  "I've been so busy, I haven't had time to do everything."  My expectation was that he would do my housework while I was at the hospice.  I was so overwhelmed, so, so overwhelmed.  "Shouldn't I go?" he asked.  "No, I need you to help me here."  I will say at this point, I would have preferred he kicked me in the leg.  I learned a very valuable lesson that day - between physical violence/verbal abuse and emotional jackassery, I'd much rather be beat than have my heart ripped out of my chest and stomped on.  Internal bleeding goes away; looking at the person you once loved with all your heart knowing that if something horrible happens, it will be all about them and fuck you, wondering when that horrible moment will come again is heartbreaking.  And it will come again, only a matter of time.  Instead of saying, "Of course I will do this for you because I love you and you are facing an extremely difficult time," he said, "WHAT?  I didn't get to say goodbye!  Why can't I go with you?  She'll be gone forever.  Why can't I go?  I need to see her."  And on.  And on.  Insisting and pleading and insisting some more.  It wasn't until I had finished showering and crying in the shower, that I had decided that it was over between us and that all the feelings that I ever had for him had swirled down the drain, now lost to the sewage pipe.  "Rest assured," I told him as I getting dressed, "that it will be over if you make me do this."  Cue another round of tears.  Eventually, he relented and just let me go alone to see my aunt.

We were her children, she didn't have any of her own.  She spoiled us when our parents couldn't.  Travels to Disney World and a trip anywhere in the world when we were 16.  She was our Fairy Godmother.  And here Zombie was, demanding that I take him to the hospice.  Even Mr Kicked Me In The Leg had not been that much of an asshole when my mother died.

Looking back on it now, I should have just let the fruit flies take over, and kicked him out of my apartment, never to be seen again, except at my aunt's funeral.  You never expect the people you love to hurt you so badly, but it happens.  I kept the sweatshirts that I had painted for her and every so often, I pull them out and touch them, remembering the hugs and kisses and bus rides and lunches.

Five years, tomorrow.

Five years since that Monday. "The surgery took longer than expected, she's just coming out now." Five years since I went to my supervisor and said, "I can't be here, I have to go." Five years since that very long week of living at the hospital, waiting. I was the only one waiting for her to die.

The end of the time. The end of it.

"You shouldn't drink so much," she said.

"Mom, please believe me, you're not going to make it."

"Don't be silly. Of course I'll be okay. I just say that stuff, you know."

"Mom, you know I have the gift. You will not survive. Please write it down for us, we won't remember. Please, just listen to me. I love you. I love you so much."

The hardest thing I ever had to say. I was mourning for her since the clock turned midnight on that New Year's Eve. Suddenly I knew, before anything ever went wrong, I knew. Maybe that's why it shut down for a while, because I couldn't handle it. I really couldn't. Before it was "sometime in the next 5 years" but two years after that fateful New Year's, I knew that that year would be it.

She did her own eulogy because of my warning. I still can't listen to it. I refuse to. And for the longest time, I couldn't remember anything except the hospital, and maybe some bits and pieces of my life.

Now I remember. And as I was reading through some of my earlier stuff, I realized that she weighed down on me, with impossible demands and leaps of logic that drove me insane. She was gone and I moved on. That while she still lived, she kept torturing my soul, tying it into impossible knots until I felt helpless. I fell on my own two feet, and after five years, I'm me again, outside of my prison. But I knew this too, that I couldn't be me again until she was gone. It's a horrible thing to say of your mother, and many people revered her for her kind spirit, which was nil when it sometimes came to me. Hence, I could never really tell her anything, something that I'm quite sure made her mad, jealous that everyone else's daughters could share things, but that I was unwilling to. I could feel it under the surface, that jealousy, wondering what happened to make me so distrustful of her, but I cared not to elaborate, though I could have. But I took it upon myself to know that it's not worth it to share these things with people, that my mind and soul are my own, of my own making, shaped by the world.

Surely asking for the Ipass to visit "a friend" would have involved more questioning than I ever wanted to bear, because "it's none of your business" never worked. She never understood that phrase, though she said of my tormentors, "they're just jealous of you". (If I hear people say that now, I want to punch them. Repeatedly.) Every single step of the way she teased me..."OOO, you're wearing nail polish! Are you going to meet boooooooys?"..."Are there going to be any boys at that party?"...and hundreds of others that pretty much ensured that I would never contemplate even expressing interest in guys in high school. Thank god I went to an all-girls school, which made keeping to myself and not dating that much easier. I'm sure everyone thought I was lesbian. There was an exception or two, but nothing ever came of it, which was more by design than anything else. I think ExFiancee took so long to get over because that was my very first relationship. I swear, she loved him more. It didn't go too badly, well, except for all that stuff. Which she never knew because I wasn't about to fucking tell her. Ms. Nosy can put that nose back into joint and stay out of my business. She lost that right the day I was crying and pleading for her to take me out of that school. What's the point in telling anyone anything if they don't listen to you?

My dad, on the other hand, is totally awesome. I want him to live forever. He was the one who would defend me against her angry screeds. Maybe if I had begged and pleaded to him, I would have been spared. But that's the sad thing about being a child...wisdom only comes in retrospect. And I'm sure that she never told him what I said about it. When he goes, it will be so very painful. And the Ipass. He had no clue why I asked for it...all he remembered was that I was going to visit my brother. Didn't even care about the friend part. But he, too, is a private person, and respects people's privacy. In the respect of personality, I am so much more like him...different, but similar. But I couldn't marry someone like my mom, which ExFiancee was very much like her.

Of course, my mother always thought I was like her. No amount of me trying to correct that perception ever worked...well, didn't work until the last few years of her life, when she finally realized that I'm more stubborn and tenacious, that I'm willing to hold out for what I want rather than settling. I wasn't going to entertain the thought of being married while she still lived. Now, I think about being married, as the thought is nice sometimes, but if I don't want to be married, I don't have that pressure on me now. Me again, free again, on my own finally.

Midnight. When the soul takes flight. Forevermore to destiny's moonlit wings, flying at night among the stars. When the winds of change sweep across the landscape to move shadowy trees, rustling around lost souls and demons.

No more Keep Right signs to plague me.

And I drink to the night.

She would have turned 65 today.

For the past few years, I've been depressed at this time of year, and it's worse when the day approaches.

I don't feel depressed about it anymore.

I remember her saying, "When you're on your own, you'll call me a lot." I didn't have the heart to tell her that that would not be the case. Thank God she never lived to see the day. I may not be the world's worst daughter, but I'm also not needy.

But when I think of this, I think of all of the times people have said things contrary to who I am. Mr. Asshat, who apparently never listened to me when I opened my mouth, ever. My mom, who I made face the reality that I wasn't out to marry rich. (I also made the mistake of saying, "Stop saying that I'm unique. No one is unique or special. We're all just people." You would have thought I had actually said, "Hey, I like eating puppies!" for the way that she and my brother reacted.) ExFiancee, who didn't listen to me at crucial moments. My life has been people I loved and cared about not listening to me. I think, that is where I get "No one wants to hear it" and "I shouldn't intrude by drunk dialing you" and "I just feel like I'm whining" when I talk about myself on a personal note.

Long ago, The Writer told me to be "more mysterious". What the fuck is that? Mysterious? I don't get it. I try not to talk about myself, because fat lot of good that does for anyone listening. There's about three people I know that actually listen when I speak with them, and although I may not see them often, I am thankful that they do listen. I've been around enough people with boundary problems that I'm highly aware of what you do and don't say. If I'm going to be "mysterious", I may as well not fucking talk at all. I'm not saying I'm perfect; occasionally I commit the random faux pas. But I own that I may have said completely inappropriate things. It's not as if I'm going to lie if people ask me a fucking a question. And I don't think it's the height of mysterious to just say, "I'm sorry, that question is off limits". I would expect any decent person to do the same to me if I ask something they consider too personal.

I've heard "you don't mean that" far too often. I was thinking about the post that I wrote earlier this morning, and I do feel that way, but I can hear the sigh of my mother and her ghost saying, "you don't mean that", like so many times before. But I do. It may be harsh, it may be crass, but that's how I feel. I'm in love with a darkly romantic idea that will never, ever happen. I know this, and that's why I'm comfortable with it. If I can't have it, I'm not settling, because I won't be happy. It is completely unattainable. I did die a little each step closer to serious, only because the actions spoke volumes more than the words. I never want to get that close again, because who knows how long it will take me to recover, and I don't want to be a fucking hopeless alcoholic mess when I'm 40. It's part and parcel of the whole "getting over yourself" thing, the entitlement, the idiocy.

It's not that I didn't love her. She was a really good mom in most of the important ways. And it's not like I didn't love ExFiancee, because I really did. They were a lot alike, though. And that made it difficult. And heaven help me for saying this, it's not like I don't care about Mr. Asshat. Wherever life takes him, I hope he gets the life that he wants, because he deserves it.

I'm just frustrated that very few people actually listen. I'm not telling some deep, moving story to anyone. I'd rather just talk about shit, light-harted silly stuff, jokes, jobs, silly childhood things, because that's what people listen to. That's way more comfortable than talking about myself, despite the 40,000 words I've written here on the subject. I don't like it to be about me; the thought of getting married and having attention on me FOR A WHOLE FUCKING DAY pretty much paralyzed me. I don't want to be fawned over, it makes me physically ill.

That's why I can't write at that other obnoxious site. People would subscribe to it. That's really fucking creepy, and it makes me paranoid that people would actually read my shit. (Random Internet Strangers? No problem! My friends? NO!) I'm not that talented, special, or insightful. I'm just me. If people find me, I want it to be a delightful surprise - or random horror, depending on which post they see. I know that I'm a mixture of creepy cold-hearted bitch and the most amazingly nice and patient person ever. It all depends on the context. I'm stubborn, but I also know how to compromise, and will admit I can be wrong. I don't pretend to know everything, nor do I have an interest in knowing everything.

To bring this back to the original point, she probably would have retired. Which would mean calls from her bitching about my dad or just chatting. Not that I'd mind chatting, but I'm a bit of a loner and damn if I don't get tired of talking to people on the phone. I'd still be listening to it, the passive-aggressiveness, judgmental attitudes, and horrible nosy questions about boyfriends. ("You like him, dooooon't yoooooou?" My response to that should have been, "Well, until you brought it up, yes. I think I'm going to go join a lesbian commune now, thanks." But then she probably would switch to "So you like her, dooooooooon't yoooooooooou?" What part of "It's none of your business" don't you understand? GAH!)

But I knew this. I knew she wasn't going to live, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to be me until she was no longer living anymore. And that's just how it is. I never felt guilty for that, though sometimes I think I should, but I just can't. I'm happy now, and it's alright.

I can remember again. I can feel again.

It will be five years.

I had to think about that, how many years. It feels like an eternity. Like she's been gone longer than that.

Oh I miss her. Greatly. And there were many positive things that she gave me, life being just one of a thousand. But I hated being smart, being logical, having to fight for my independence, having to deal with her "disappointment".

But she was gone to me for so long before that. I remember sitting on the couch, watching a Dateline that featured bullying in schools. One set of parents were talking about how they didn't know how bad it was, how they were so sorry that they could not protect their young son, that they didn't listen. He'd committed suicide in 5th grade. As we were watching, she said, "HOW do you NOT know?"

It took all I had not to pick up the walnut bowl and bean her with it. Every last bit of restraint I had to sit there, unreacting, cool, calm, collected. She didn't know, she didn't listen. For so long I thought it was malicious intention, but when I was 16, I learned that she never knew. God, that day...confirmation retreat. Having to spend three days with your former tormentors. I kept to myself. She'd noticed that I had not been social. "Well, they made fun of me all the time when we were in grade school." "Oh? I thought it was teacher." I could feel my heart sink, and my soul melt through my body, oozing out of my feet and through the floor of the van, puddling in the street. It was then that I vowed no matter how compelled I felt to say something about it, I would never let them know. It is long passed but still effects me once in a while, but I've still managed never to tell. And I never will.

Even after watching that Dateline, I still said nothing, and I could have said a lot. She never knew why I wrote that I hated her, and it would be for that reason. If, as she truly believed, a parent's job is to protect their children, she'd done a piss poor job of it with me.

And then I think of her talking about marriage. I know she trying to dispense wisdom to me, but her version of marriage sound so stifling and constricting, I still think I'll never get married. Even before the betrayal of trust, I was having doubts. And it should have ended right there. But I was too stupid, too forgiving of something I couldn't forgive. A lesson learned, is all. And I never told her.

My whole life, just not telling her. Enforcing the boundaries. Protecting her from the things I knew would devastate her. But that is okay, I really think I'm coming to terms with it, on the fifth anniversary that she's been gone. I loved her, I miss her, but not like how other people would. I don't understand when people say, "I wouldn't be able to function if I lost my mother". I miss the good things, the talking, Sunday paper reading, taping West Wing. But there's those glaring things, things that I carry with me, that I can never forget nor forgive. I've been functioning without her for a very long time, and such as it is, I could go on without her. But I knew this when I knew she was going to die. That I'd be sad of course, but it would never erase the years of pain, and those years are etched deeply into my soul. Everyone thinks I'm strong, that I was able to still go to work the Monday after, that I wasn't devastated by her death, and in that, I feel like a fraud, because it's not so much strength, as it is that I've only had to rely on myself for my own emotional support ever since I was about 9.

I learned lessons that no child should have to learn. For that, I feel a mixture of pain, pity, regret but also of relief and reliance. Because of this, though, I've been acting like some petulant teenager for the past few years, pouting and whining. Now, for once, being the person I am, that I wanted to be. Peeling off the layers of insanity to be free, living in Magical Night.

If she had lived, I'm not sure that I would have found myself again.

I miss my mom....

I miss not having you around to talk to.
I miss Pavolovas.
I miss the avocado and jicama salad.
I miss christmas eve.
I miss the shopping trips.
I miss you.
I miss "anger managment".
I miss being the level headed one.
I miss you.
I miss Sundays where you read the paper
with your hillbilly teeth.
I miss everything.
You don't know a good thing till it's gone,
make sure you call your mother,
and tell her how much she's meant to you,
because one day she won't be around
to tell you what you need to hear.
One day, and sometimes in an instant,
she won't be there to comfort you.
Or let you know that she's your darling,
that's how tough life is.
When she's not there for you,
you're an orphan, though your dad may try,
but nothing soothes a heart like a Mother,
and cookies and old recipes and pies.
One day it's just you,
and everything that she ever did,
and you don't know where to start,
wherever she ended.
No matter how horrible she was,
casseroles are always a staple,
in the old, old ways;
no matter her disposition,
she always tried, and always gave,
always your mother,
and always helped you on your way.
So make her cry on Mother's Day,
with heartfelt card and presents,
to pass this life away,
and she will thank you with advice in spades,
until she no longer walks the earth
and you are left to navigate your own way,
when, with ones of your own,
you realize casseroles are not just sympathy,
but of a time, when we cared for each other,
in the loss of someone so dear.
And when you read her reciepe, you think of her,
as how it should be.
And pray that your children,
have such fond memories,
that when you go, before them, heaven help,
that a dish reminds them of you.

Christmas Dreams

I dream of Christmas Past,
in all its frustating glory -
the tree to be trimmed
the presents to be wrapped
the cookies to be baked
the food to be cooked
the house to be cleaned
the mantle to be decorated.
I dream of these things in swirls,
the busyness and frantic pace
of a household with Christmas
and a silver disco ball.
I dream the dreams of a child,
of pink ponies and gift wrap,
and the serene moments of joy.
I dream of the snow and the cold
and of hot chocolate by the fire.
I dream of the food and festivites,
loud, cacaphenous laughter billowing
throughout the house.
I dream of perfectly placed ornaments
and of perfectly wrapped presents
perfectly placed 'neath the tree.
I dream of lucious cookies
coated with sugar and comfort,
baked frenzied and with uncertainty.
But most of all, of which I dream,
the hardest lesson now learned,
is that you are there to hug,
to talk to in a quiet moment,
even if you were my annoying mother.

Mom, I miss you.

I know I said I wouldn't, but...I do.

You never taught me how to make chocolate mousse.

I watch "West Wing" and think of you.

And no, I wasn't going to marry Ron. Or John. And it's still none of your business whether I had sex with any guy. Sorry, but that one stays.

But I still love you anyway. Why did you have to suddenly/not suddenly go? It does suck.

Just a note...

I am sure that in addition to drug dealing, my mom would've gone for this. You know, to supplement the income.

Dear Mom,

Can you believe it's been a year? Good lord.

I'll be spending Memorial Day with Dad. Aunt Joan wants to make potato salad, but you can best bet it won't be anything like your potato salad. For the love of god, can't we make something the way you did?

I've been talking to Erika more. Oh lord, do you know what you're sister's been up to? Holy Jeebus, she's gone completely crackers. Mom, you gotta help her. Really. Before she messes up her family. Does she even know what she's doing? And I'm being serious here. I feel like going over there and confronting her with every little nasty detail I know and giving her a real slap in the face. Talk to Grandma Serwin about this, you gotta help stop this. Remember when she called you about Ron and I was very, very angry and upset? I'm even MORE angry and upset now. She really needs help...both of them do. It's both disgusting and ridiculous.

What's really, really funny is that she offered for me to turn to her when I need motherly advice. Hell, no! You are my mom, and there's no substitutions on that one. We'll just have to continue communicating the way we have been now. Not exactly a sure thing, but enough.

I keep being a jerk to John, but you know what? He's done that to me plenty of times. He knows what the laser-beam look is. Why does he continually do something to piss me off that much? And I've realized, he's a snob. Not a full out snob about everything, but some of the time he is. And you know how I feel about that. But I think the thing that gets me angry is that he's always bringing up the fact that I sometimes act like a jerk...and if I bring up his being a jerk, well, dontcha know, he's got a reason. What the hell is that? Is that what guys do? Because, and I'm sorry for saying it, I don't want to get married then. That's just too much to deal with for an entire lifetime. He can be cool, but he doesn't understand that when I get mad, I'm mad for quite a while before I cool off. You would think he would have got that point in the few years we were dating. He does things to get me mad, and well, I'm obviously going to yell at him. He just doesn't get that. Why? WHY? I do feel kinda bad for it, but still...remember? "I know my daughter, and that look means she's going to kill you." That was really funny, Mom. You called it like you saw it. But still, that didn't stop him.

I hope I'm not the one who has to go "anger management" classes. You know what I'm talking about.

Ah, I still miss you. I keep trying to remember you, and it's hard, because for a very long time all I could see was you lying there in the hospital bed, with all of the machines and tubes and such. Were you really responding to us? Or was it like when Grandma Schallack died and you were just going through your life like she did? I would like to think you could hear us, but I just don't know. I can't stop thinking about the hospital, and being there, watching you with diminishing hope, trying to prop up Dad and Ja. I knew, but they didn't. And thank you for listening to me. Even if I never do anything special, Mom, I'm still you're "Golden Child".

I was at work, forgot my ID, so I had to sign in. I figured that I would be the only one in there now. I only gave the guard my last name. "Kathie?" he asked. That startled me a moment, and then told him no. (Of course, I didn't tell him my name then.) Then he got to my name. The thing is, if it was in alphabetical order, my name would have come first. I don't get it. Oh, and the other day was talking to someone somewhere. They said I must be a Kathleen. It made me a little sad, your Kates. No wonder I feel like I've got two peronalities. You called me Kates for a while before Dad got the bright idea to give me my name when I was born. And it was all odd, given that those two moments happened within a week of each other.

Oh, and your toe was actually skin colored after the surgery. Just thought that you'd like to know.

Well, I've got shopping to do and stuff, so have I have to go. Hope to talk to you soon.

Love,
Me

For where I am in Now

So you've gone away. No one, apparently, trusts me to make the Easter menu.

"So I'll continue to continue to pretend
Our life will never end
And flowers never bend with the rainfall"

I still love you. Thank you for the memories of your mother and the Tom Collins that she poured into the iron so that your father didn't know that she was drinking. It was delightful, funny, and sad.

And, if you could, steer me toward a good guy. Please. John Edwards was on Fox News, about Terri Schiavo, so I don't think you should trust him. I know you have other ways, so please try to use those. I would be greatful for your help, Mom.

Love,
Your darling daughter, the one you prayed for

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.